The Scarf
by AnneM.Oliver
Summary: His obsession with her all started with a scarf, some perfume and a red dress. Anything that happened after that wasn't his fault, really it wasn't.
1. Chapter 1

All characters belong to JK Rowling

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**The Scarf**

_**By**_

_**AnneM**_

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_Weep, as if you thought of laughter!_

_Smile, as tears were coming after!_

_Marry your pleasures to your woes:_

_And think life's green well worth its rose!_

_From – **Song** (Verse 1)_

_By Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

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**Chapter 1 – A Time and a Place for Everything**

Hermione Granger felt there were a time and a place for everything. As it said in the Bible, there was a time for rejoicing, and a time to refrain from rejoicing. In a few short days, Bill Weasley would be marrying the woman of his dreams, which proved to serve a painful reminder that even in this time of sorrow – a time when their world was falling apart, there was still a time and a place for everything.

Although Hermione felt guilty shopping for a dress for the wedding when she knew that she had just Oblivated her parents' memories, and had sent them packing to Australia only a week ago, life went on, as it would with or without her. Her earlier thought remained - now was a time for rejoicing and celebrating a continuation of life and love with the wedding of Bill and Fleur. In addition, with the wedding came the need for some normalcy for them all before the uncertainty that was surely to follow.

Keeping in mind that she was shopping for a dress and nothing more, she couldn't resist stopping by the cosmetic counter of the large Muggle Department store, when she saw a display with her mother's favourite perfume. Though Hermione usually only wore Rose water or perfumed lotion, her mother always wore the perfume, _'Beautiful'_ and seeing the large display with the gorgeous perfume bottles made her feel nostalgic and wistful and it also made her miss her mother something fierce.

Lifting a sample atomizer, Hermione sprayed a touch of the perfume on her wrist, waved her wrist in the air, and then sniffed. It smelled divine.

"Would you like some today?" the sales clerk asked.

Hermione discreetly shook her head no and then said, "No, I love it, but it's too expensive. It reminds me of my mother. She always wears it."

Smiling at the woman, Hermione placed the perfume sample back on the counter and walked further into the store. Stopping shortly beyond the perfume counter, she spied a rack with merino wool scarves. Much of merino wool came from Australia, and this too made her think of her parents. She picked up a multicolored tartan scarf, placed the soft wool to her face and closed her eyes. She would need a warm scarf, wherever Ron, Harry, and she might be headed this fall. Even if she couldn't buy the perfume, she could buy this pretty scarf. At least it was practical.

After purchasing the scarf, she began to peruse the racks of dresses. Hermione kept her guard up, hearing the words of Professor Moody in the recesses of her mind… "Constant vigilance!" In fact, neither Ron nor Lupin thought it was a good idea for Hermione to come by herself shopping today. Lupin warned her that Voldemort would love to weaken Harry by striking at his friends. She already knew that, hence the reason she sent her parents away. Still, she needed this last little time alone. No one understood that, and she wouldn't be able to make them understand, so she wouldn't even try.

Besides, she could take care of herself. She had her wits about her, and her wand, and she was in a large, Muggle department store. She would buy her dress and then go right back to The Burrow, and then in two short days they would rescue Harry from the Dursley's and the wedding would commence a few days after that.

Pulling out a short, lilac dress, Hermione almost scoffed aloud when she saw the price tag. Placing it back on the rack, she fingered a few others when her hand came to rest on a blue dress.

"That one wouldn't look good on you," a man said from behind her.

Hermione jumped, and almost pulled her wand out from the hidden pocket of her jeans. Behind her stood a man, tall, late twenties to early thirties, with long dark hair, worn mostly in braids and dreadlocks. He was handsome in a rogue sort of way, and his manner of dress was haphazard and certainly not usual or the norm. If Hermione had to guess, she would say that he was no ordinary Muggle. This man was a wizard. The only thing she had to figure out was if he was friend, or foe.

"Who are you?" she hissed in almost a whisper.

"A friendly, fashion-forward, stranger, who was content to mind my own business, merely standing a few meters away, watching a pretty girl pick out a pretty dress, but then I had to intervene, you see. I can't have you pick out such a horrid colour, no, no, no, it would never do."

He walked around her slowly. All the hair stood out on the back of her neck as he came closer. Everything about this man spelled out danger. She was certain he must know who she was, yet she didn't know who he was. He didn't seem to be a Death Eater, but if not, then who could he be? As he passed by her shoulder, his body brushed against hers and she shivered involuntarily, cursing inwardly.

When he appeared again, in front of her, he was holding up a stunning, red dress. "This one would look beautiful on you. A beautiful frock for a beautiful girl."

"Who are you?" she asked again, with more force, pushing aside his raised arm holding the dress.

His other hand came up quickly and grabbed her wrist. He pulled her to him and said, "Where are your manners, Miss Granger? You should tell me your name first." Then he winked at her.

"Apparently you already know my name, you imbecile," she seethed.

He smiled at her, with perfectly straight, white teeth. Being this close to him, she held her breath, expecting him to smell badly, or to be unclean, but he appeared neither. He smelled…good. He smelled like musk, leather, and man. His clothes were different, but clean and tidy. His hair was long, but it too seemed cleaned.

He continued to smile and she continued to frown, even wincing faintly as his fingers dug into the tender flesh of her wrist. Sensing this, he loosened his hold slightly, as amusement continued to cross his handsome face. "My name isn't imbecile, it's Scabior. One 'S' and one 'R', if you're so inclined."

"How quaint, you know how to spell," she mocked, removing her hand from his. "And is this your last name or first name?"

"Yes," he answered vaguely.

She moved away from him, a nagging fear deep in her chest. She shouldn't have come out alone. She was in danger. This man knew who she was. Turning to leave, shame shot through her as she was caught unaware when his arm circled around her waist, gently yet firmly, She swayed slightly, temporarily losing balance. She fell back against him, dropping her small bag with her scarf.

He steadied her, her back against his chest, as he whispered in her ear, "It's not safe for little Mudblood friend's of Harry Potter's to be out by themselves, especially when there's a price tag on their heads. Your head has the highest price there can be, Beautiful. Hmm, just like the perfume you tried on moments ago."

She took a deep breath, pushed away from him, pulling down on his arm in the process, and turned to see amusement on his good-looking face. "What are you saying?" she asked.

In a perfectly conversational tone, he asked, "Did you know that a particular Death Eater by the name of Greyback has a thing for you? He wants you for his own. He'd eat you for dinner and have nothing left for lunch, sweet thing." Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. "That's the trouble, you're used to taking care of everyone else, but not yourself, are you? I wonder, who's there to take care of you, Beautiful?"

"I can take care of myself, and don't you forget it. I don't know who you are, or who you think I am, but leave me alone," she warned, backing away from him, until her hip hit hard against a dress display. She looked around the busy department store. She couldn't Disapparate away from here. She needed to go into the dressing room and leave from there, where no one could see her.

They stared at each other in silence, she wary, he seemingly amused, without a trace of unease, she without a trace of fear. She passed by him, head held high.

He gave her a half grin, leaned into her, and grabbing her wrist again, (the one she sprayed with the perfume) he took a deep sniff. Exhaling slowly he said, "Now that I'll remember." Waiting a heartbeat, her wrist still close to his nose, each breath scanning her skin, making her pulse skip and beat wildly, he asked, "Aren't you even going to tell me goodbye, Beautiful? I don't know when we'll get to see each other again."

She snatched her wrist from his once more and warned, "Really, you have the wrong person. I'm not who you think I am, now leave me alone." Then she scrambled to the dressing room and Disapparated to the Burrow as quickly as she could.

She didn't get a dress, and she forgot her scarf, so overall it was a wasted trip. She also never told a soul what happened that day.

The day before the wedding, a package arrived by Owl to The Burrow with her name on it. She was alone, on the front porch when it arrived wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string, and with a card, stating it was for her. Opening it slowly, unsurely, wondering the entire time, what it could be, and if she should tell Harry or Ron or Lupin, she gasped when she finally saw the contents.

Inside were her scarf, a bottle of the perfume and the red dress.

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**This won't be a very long story - perhaps 12 chapters, once a week perhaps. I was waiting to finish 'The First Stone' to start it. I know it probably won't be very popular, as most people only want to read 'Dramione' from me, but sometimes I want to try other things, too. Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

All characters belong to JK Rowling

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**Chapter 2 – It's Called a Game**

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_We have met later – it is too late to meet,_

_O friend, not more than a friend!_

_Death's forecome shroud is tangled round my feet,_

_And if I step or stir, I touch the end,_

_In this last jeopardy,_

_Can I approach thee, I, who cannot move?_

_How shall I answer thy request for love?_

_Look in my face and see._

'_A Denial'_

_Verse One_

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

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On the morning of the wedding, while preparing for a houseful of guests along with Ron, Ginny and Harry, Hermione got a prickly feeling along the base of her skull. It was similar to the feeling she got when she went shopping at the department store and she had met that man named Scabior and that was when she knew…he was here. Somewhere close by, he had to be here.

She had to know more about him. She had to know if this man was a danger to Harry, if he was a Death Eater, what his purpose was, what he wanted, who he was, why he was here, and what he wanted from her. While the boys were safely setting up the chairs in the tent, she left Ginny (who along with Hermione was fastening white ribbons to the outside of the chairs) and with one last backwards glance toward Ron, Hermione slipped off toward the field beside The Burrow. For some unknown reason that was where she sensed he might be.

Undetected by anyone in the Weasley family, or any member of the Order, (who were standing guard) she slipped among the high grass and stalks of summer wheat, toward something she didn't even know. She would stop this man from hurting her boys, even at a risk to her own life if necessary.

Once she was in the middle of the field, with her wand at her side, she stood as still as she could, somehow knowing he would come to her. She didn't know if that thought thrilled her, or scared her, or was a combination of both. A light breeze whispered across the field, ruffling the tops of the tall grass and tuffs of wheat, which were taller than she was, and she waited.

She knew he wouldn't disappoint her.

Disgusted with herself, she knew she shouldn't seek him out. He was dangerous. Pulse racing wildly, she whirled around to run out of the field, when she heard him call out, "Where are you going in such a hurry, Beautiful? You only just got here."

She stopped dead in her tracks, an overwhelming sense of dread flooding every pore of her body. She turned in complete disorder, but couldn't see him. Finding it hard to swallow, her fear quickly turned to alarm and then to anger. "What do you want? How did you find us? How did you breach the wards?"

Without answering her question, the voice said, "You look very pretty in your red dress, but then again, I knew you would."

Clenching her wand tighter, she whipped around the other way, squared her shoulders, and brought her chin up in an act of defiance. "Where are you?"

"And you have the perfume on, too," he stated, still ignoring her query. "As I knew you would. You'd smell wonderful, perfume or not. I have an excellence sense of smell. That's what makes me such a good Snatcher, you know. Oh, that's an answer to one of your questions, darlin'."

The sun was starting to glow higher in the sky, and Hermione raised a hand over her brows to block the brightness from her gaze as she looked around. She had never heard the term 'Snatcher' before, but she could only imagine what it meant. She was about to Disapparate back into the house when she spied the man approaching toward her left side. Every step he took toward her made her heart pound harder, faster, and more intense.

He was right in front of her before he spoke again. "Look at you. My darlin', but you are a sweet thing. No wonder the werewolf wants you so badly." Hermione held her ground, her wand still tightly in her right hand. She looked closely in both of his hands and she didn't see a wand.

"We have wards up. You shouldn't have been able to breach them."

"Yes you do, and I wager they're pretty good ones," he said with a slight smile. Biting his bottom lip, to bite back a smile, he said, "I find the freckles on your cheekbones and nose appealing in the bright sunlight, Beautiful." He kept his pace slow, but he was walking around her, just as he did in the department store days earlier, and just as before, she felt disjointed, and highly aware of him sexually, and she didn't like it at all, or at least she didn't think she should.

"You're trespassing, and almost every member of the Order of the Phoenix are either already here, or will be here shortly, so you should leave," she said firmly.

Acting almost annoyed, yet coy, he said, "Now why would I want to do that, especially when I went to so much trouble to get here. It truly wasn't easy, you know, but I appreciate your help."

Now Hermione looked annoyed. She turned to face him, as he was at her back, and she harked, "I didn't help you come here today! I had hoped never to set eyes on you again!"

He laughed. "Says the woman who's wearing my dress and my perfume."

She hissed, "I didn't have time to buy another dress because you chased me out of the store!"

"Really now? I chased you, did I? Let's re-examine that statement. I think we were having a nice little conversation, you overreacted, and then you rushed away." He clucked his tongue, "Tsk, tsk, yes, I can see how talking to you, offering you fashion advice, and telling you how pretty you were, was so wrong. I should be punished for that. Oh, and what about the perfume?" He leaned in closer and took a deep whiff. She leaned away. "Your natural scent is one of the strongest, most intoxicating smells I've ever encountered. I truly think that's why the werewolf wants you, but combined with this perfume, it's overwhelming, that's what it is."

He was so close that she placed her hands on his chest, even the hand holding her wand, and she tried to push him away.

He grabbed her hands swiftly, with an iron grip, and kept them on his chest, left his hands on top of hers, and said, "Now why did you have to go and touch me? That wasn't good. You sealed your fate now, Beautiful."

"I just wanted you to leave," she said in a whisper.

"I can never leave you now," he said back, leaning closer yet, inhaling more, his nose sinking into her hair, then skimming the sensitive skin of her neck and collarbone. She cringed, and tried to pull away.

He finally let go of her hands and she stumbled back a few steps. "As to how I got here," he said, answered a question she asked at the start, "it was the scarf, darlin'. It connects us. I placed a locating spell on it. I couldn't place a spell like that on something like the perfume, besides you told the girl your mother wore it, so it might have been a gift for her. And I didn't know if you would keep the dress or not, but you bought the scarf, so I knew you'd keep it."

Hermione felt dazed. With shallow breaths, she was aware that she had brought this on herself. She had been so stupid. All of this was her fault. Suddenly, she rushed him again, anger seeping out of her. She placed her wand under his chin, grabbed his leather coat with her free hand and said, "If you so much as lay a dirty hand on Ron or Harry, I'll kill you myself, is that understood! I'll kill you! You leave us in peace and never return!"

Staring at her with eyes that showed no fear, he said, "I can't make you any promises, sweetness, but chances are the Death Eaters will get your friends first. Anyway, my job isn't exactly as important as all that. I'm a Snatcher, as stated previously, and the best there is. My job is to find Mudbloods, and bring them back to the Ministry."

Then he smiled down at her, placed a hand around her waist, tight as an iron band, his other hand came up to wrap around her wrist, to pull her wand down from his chin.

She was doomed. This was the end. It was over for her before it began. She had failed Harry in the worst possible way. Now he might never succeed without her help. How could she have been so stupid?

If she screamed, would anyone hear her? Would it be better to die now, or have this man take her back to the Ministry? What would happen to her there? True, she hadn't registered as the new law dictated, but what punishment would be imposed against her because of it?

As all these questions swirled around her brain, he cocked his head to the side and said, "Why so quiet, Beautiful? Where's all your fight?"

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked, her head tilting backwards, "because I have to tell you, I won't make it easy for you."

"Good, because I don't like it easy. The fun is in the game, sweetheart. The chase. The catch," he said, his face so close to hers that she trembled. He whispered these last words, "The snatch."

"Yet you have an unfair advantage, if you used the scarf to locate me, don't you?" she accused. "How much fun is it for you when you cheat?"

He raised his eyebrows, smiled a sexy smile, and then lowered his lips so close to hers that she thought he was going to kiss her and he said, "I like cheating almost as much as I like snatching. It all goes hand in hand, but don't worry or fret. The game hasn't begun yet. You go to your little wedding tonight, have fun, dance, look pretty, and be the belle of the ball, and every man's wet dream tonight. The chase will start later."

A breeze lifted her hair, causing it to brush forward, until it was fanning his cheek. He inhaled again. "I'll remember you forever, and I'll never have trouble finding you, scarf of not, Beautiful."

Struggling to get out of his grasp, though her nipples tightened as they chaffed against the material of her gown as it rubbed against the leather of his jacket, and heat suffused throughout her body and pooled between her legs, she had enough whereto well to state, "Stop calling me that, you big oaf!"

He threw his head back and laughed outright. "Big oaf!" He looked her right in the eyes, pulled her closer, and repeated. "Big oaf? Fine, call me whatever you'd like, but I call you 'Beautiful' because that's what you are, perfume or not. Hasn't anyone ever called you that before, such as your little ginger boyfriend, or the lord and savior, Harry Potter?"

"Don't talk about them," she said, managing to get her hands out from between their bodies, and hitting his chest several times. "Don't you ever, ever mention their names! Don't you talk about them, or ever hurt them! I mean it! I'll kill you if you hurt them!"

The man's jaw clenched, and anger flashed in his eyes. He shifted her in his arms, holding her even tighter, if possible. Any resemblance of a smile faded, and was replaced with a grim frown, and fire in his eyes. "I shouldn't let you go. I should take you to the Ministry right now, or give you to Greyback, and let him rape and torture you, teach you that the only place for Mudbloods is in the Mud."

Her eyes widened with shock and she stared at him speechless. Even as he was saying such cruel things in retaliation to her, his right hand was stroking her back up and down. First he was touching her hair, then the bare skin above the dress, then the soft silk of her dress, and it made her feel soft and wanted and desired and she hated the kaleidoscope of feelings that jumped to the surface.

She had a funny feeling he felt them too, because his eyes strayed from her eyes down to her heaving chest, then back to her lips, and she licked them self-consciously, but before she could protest, his mouth came down on hers, his lips touching hers softer than she could imagine, after such cruel words had escaped them moments ago.

She froze. This was such madness. This man was her enemy, he was a threat to them all, yet he was kissing her, and she wanted it to continue, and he was pulling on her bottom lip with his lips, urging her mouth open, and for some insane reason she obeyed.

He loosened his grip slightly, bringing his arms around her waist and hips, and she dropped her wand, as her hands bunched into the fabric of his leather jacket. Her eyes closed, his mouth left hers to kiss her closed eyes, one by one, then he returned to her mouth, gave her another slow, agonizing kiss, then pushed her away.

They stared at each other. For the first time, this man's feathers seemed as ruffled as hers. He pointed at her and said, "That meant nothing! You're still fair game, Beautiful! Keep on your toes, because I'll be right behind you."

He bent down, picked up her wand, thrust it into her hand, and stalked away. She stood in the now empty field, arms around herself, trembling, with the noonday sun now high in the sky. She stayed there until she heard Ron and Ginny calling her name. Finally, she answered them and ran out of the field toward their voices.


	3. Chapter 3

All characters belong to JKRowling

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**Chapter 3 – Are you Lost?**

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_Love you seek for, presupposes,_

_Summer heat and sunny glow._

_Tell me, do you find moss-roses,_

_Budding, blooming, in the snow?_

_Snow might kill the rose tree's root –_

_Shake it quickly from your foot,_

_Lest it harm you as you go._

_Verse 1_

_Questions And Answers_

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

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Hermione found it hard to breath. How had the Death Eaters found them? How had they breached their wards? The wedding reception was well guarded by members of the Order of the Phoenix, but then again, the Ministry was supposed to have been the safest place in their world – yet it had fallen as well.

Everything happened at once. Mass confusion and chaos reigned everywhere as wedding guests began to Disapparate away, Death Eaters began to Apparate inside their wards, Order Members began to duel the Death Eaters, and she grabbed Harry's hand with her left hand, Ron's hand with her right, and she Disapparated them to the first place that came to her mind.

Piccadilly Circus.

She had been ready to go for weeks, with everything packed away in her little beaded bag. Still she wished they had more time to prepare. Holding the boys hands tightly, they walked along the busy streets, looking at every face they saw along the way, wondering, could this person be a Death Eater, could that person be one, too?

Hermione ushered the boys down a dark, almost abandoned looking alley, explained how she had packed their things in her bag, and then she reached inside and retrieved clothing for them both. She told them to go deep into the alley and to change, and that she would wait, wand at the ready, at the mouth of the alley for them to finish, then she would trade places with them.

Looking at her surroundings closely, her mouth was dry and she felt as if her throat was closing tightly. Her bag gripped securely in her left hand, her right hand in the secret pocket of her red dress, gripping her wand, she felt that same, similar feeling at the base of her skull, down the back of her neck, that she felt that day in the department store, and again in the field outside The Burrow.

She didn't know if she could handle seeing 'him' here, right now, of all places, of all times. If she saw him right now, she would have no choice but to regard him as her enemy, for the fight had begun, the war was staged, it was the beginning of the end.

Scanning the crowd, first to the left, then to the right, she only saw nameless, faceless Muggles. Harry walked out of the alley first, startling her when he touched her bare arm.

"Oh!" she sighed.

"Sorry, Hermione. Here, let me stand guard and you go back and change now," he urged. She nodded, passing Ron and trash bins, and rubbish littering the ground. She stepped over boxes, planks, and around empty crates, until she found a somewhat private area in the dark, deserted, damp alleyway.

Reaching deep inside her bag, her wits reeling, and her senses keen and on alert, her stomach lurched when she saw the familiar person she least wanted to see walking toward her from the mouth of the alley, from where Harry and Ron were supposedly standing guard.

She pulled her hand out of her bag, and reached for her wand instead of her clothing. She knew she couldn't waste one second of precious time calling for help. However, the man before her seemed unfazed by her actions. He wasn't preening, but he certainly wasn't afraid either.

"Are you lost, little girl?" he asked. "Because I happen to know that you're a long way from home."

The dark alley didn't afford much light for her to study him, yet his jaw seemed set, and his hazel eyes seemed calculated, focused and innate. He had grace, and he alluded a sort of elegance and intelligence that coiled deep within his body, waiting to spring forth, waiting to repel or sway people, whichever the case may be.

They continued to gaze at each other, and when she didn't answer, he walked ever closer. Grabbing a handful of her hair, gently, he said, "Did you run away, lovely? Are you still running? If so, I have to say, it seems that I've already caught you."

Hermione was aware that her breathing had become ragged and dull, and besides the sounds of dripping water, and the distant sounds of the city streets, her breathing mingled with his were the only things she could hear.

Aware that he was still walking, and as he walked, he was pushing her further into the alley, she finally placed her hands on his chest, and said, "Stop." They were in the darkest part of the alley, where now he was nothing more than an outline. She sensed his masculine power, with her hand on his chest she felt his heart beating, and she knew it was beating as fast as hers was.

"Why are you skulking around here in this alley? What are you doing here?" she asked.

He laughed a bit, and said, "Didn't I just ask you the same thing? I thought I did. And I never skulk. Are you sure you know the meaning of the word?" He placed one of his large hands, rough skin, over hers on his chest, trapping it against the leather of his coat, and under the warmth of his skin.

"I know more than you'll ever know, and you seemed to be skulking to me," she retaliated. "Why are you here?"

"Because I've got a secret for you sweetheart," he began.

"I don't care, now let me go," she hesitated, "Please." She wondered if he knew Harry was close by. She wondered if Harry and Ron wondered what was taking her so long. Then, with dread, she wondered if Harry and Ron were still waiting for her… "Wait, did you hurt them – my friends?"

Suddenly, she pulled her wand from her dress pocket and pointed it at his chest. With a set jaw, a frown, and a determined gleam in her eyes, she said, "What have you done to my friends?" All rational thought left her hazy, foggy brain, and she pushed the man hard, using her shoulder against his chest, until he was up against the other side of the alley, against the other brick wall.

He had an amused look on his face. Of course, he let her push him, for he was so much larger than she was, and she knew it, and that made her even angrier, and she hit his chest with her fist and said, "Tell me right now or you'll pay!"

"Ah, sweets, I didn't know you had it in you," he said with a laugh. He grabbed both her wrists and pulled her up against him. "Calm down, calm down, lovely, calm down," he began to coo softly, even as she fought harder against his grasp. "I'm just here to give you a warning; your friends are still waiting, like proper little friends should, at the edge of the sidewalk, for you to finish dressing. Now if I was a lad, I would sneak a peek, but that's just me."

She made a strangled sort of noise in the back of her throat and in desperation, she tried to wrench her wand hand from his grip, but he pulled her even tighter against him. "Let me go!" she commanded.

"I will, but you're wasting your time fighting, now calm down, as I said, and just listen for a minute," he insisted, the smile gone from his face, his hold slacking. Moving his hand from her wrist to hold her hand, he kept her wand hand firmly in his, while his other hand released her other hand, to move around to circle her waist.

Pulling her up against him, just as someone started down the alley, he said, "Time to think quickly, Beautiful." Then without warning, he kissed her again. He kissed her as if he had every right to kiss her. He kissed her like he was a man on a mission, like he was a man with a thirst, and she was his well.

Someone walked behind them, and he continued to kiss her, his mouth moving tantalizing over hers, his tongue snaking out to glide across her bottom lip, inside her mouth, to caress her tongue. Heat swelled in the bottom recesses of her stomach, flared to each limb, and she melded her body against his.

He only broke the kiss, his mouth hovering closely over hers, when the person behind him said, "How about giving me a taste of that sweet little thing."

Tucking her head protectively into his chest with one hand on the back of her head, he said to the person behind them, "Sod off, you blimey tosser, or you'll know what's good for you."

"Fine, fine," the man said, as he continued down the opposite way, his footsteps growing fainter and fainter.

Hermione lifted her head from his chest to see that he was smiling down at her. He shrugged and said, "I had to protect my reputation, didn't I, as well as my property? I didn't know it was a harmless, Muggle drunk. It could have been one of those unpleasant Death Eaters, speaking of…" and he released her.

Then there was really no help for it, for when he released her, she pulled back her hand to hit him, but he caught her hand in one smooth movement, and then raised it to his mouth and placed a kiss upon her knuckles. She wanted to hit him more than ever after that.

Still smiling fondly at her, while she was more horrified than ever, he said, "As I was saying, my love, before we were so rudely interrupted, and before you almost tried to perform bodily harm upon me, you do realize that every Death Eater under the Dark Lord's control is now out looking for your little boyfriends, right? I hope you have a better plan to keep them safe than to take them to an alley in central London."

"Are you out of you mind?" she hissed. "Of course I have a plan!" Then she realized that she really didn't have a plan, and that this man had found them far too easily, and it was because of the scarf. Berating herself for keeping it in the first place, and then for packing it in the second place, she pushed away from him, then pulled it out of her beaded bag, throwing it to the pavement by their feet.

"Take it!" she ordered. "Take it back, and don't even think of following us!"

He leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and said, "I think something might be troubling you. What is it, sweets?"

"Oh, you're so ghastly! You're so atrocious!"

"If you insist on using big words, I might have to buy a dictionary," he mocked.

She stomped her foot and asked, "What sort of little game are you playing with me? Just stop it! I won't have it. I don't want it, and I won't have it. I'm not some sort of girl who can easily be played! I'm not subject to my emotions, and I'm not turned by a compliment, nor do I think you mean anything when you kiss me. As you said the last time, it's all a game to you, but listen to me, Scabior, with one S and one R, if I'm so inclined, and listen good, I'm not playing your stupid, silly little game, do you understand!"

Turning, she started back toward the mouth of the alley, but turned back. "I won't be outsmarted by someone like you!" she huffed.

That broke him from his stupor. He pounced. Literally, he bounded from the wall and pounced onto her, backing her onto the other side of the alley in one swift movement.

"You had your say, cupcake, now I'll have mine," he mumbled, pressing her against the opposite wall with his body. She pushed at his body with her hands, but he was too strong. His elbows were beside her head, his hands in her hair, his nose trailing down the side of her face.

"I'll only say this once, so listen carefully, lovely," he said right into her ear, before his tongue came out to give the whorl of her ear a small tickle. She squirmed, which he seemed to like, because he smiled against the side of her neck. Kissing the side of her neck, back up to her ear, he said, "This is a game, you're right, with everyone except for with you. I don't know why, so don't ask me, but with you it's different. Don't ever, ever expect me to admit that again."

He bit the end of her ear, harder than he should have, softer than he wanted to, and she moaned, and he grew taunt, his thigh pressing between her legs. "When necessary, I'll do what I can to help you, but only you. I won't purposely go after your boys, but if the chance arises that I can get them, without you, I'll go for it, I have to. Still, I won't go after them if you're with them, unless it can't be helped."

He sighed, long and hard, ragged and desperately.

She sagged, her hands now on his shoulders, her forehead resting on his chest. Biting her bottom lip to keep from responding, she shook her head back and forth. Urging her head back with his, his palm came up to cup her cheek, his middle finger sweeping a tear away - a tear she didn't even know she had shed.

Placing a hand on the middle of her chest, he pushed her up against the wall, and said, "Stay there." Moving back toward the middle of the alley, he picked up the scarf. Turning toward Hermione, he stepped in front of her and placed it around her neck, wrapping it once her neck once and then tying it, his knuckles brushing the tips of her breasts as he did.

"With this, I'll know where you are, but I'll only come when you want me to come. You'll realize how it works. Get changed and watch out for Death Eaters." Grapping her chin and gazing into her eyes he said, "Why do I have a terrible feeling you'll be the death of me? And I rather like me, too." He smiled, laughed, and then winked at her before saying, "I wish I had something of yours to keep."

Scabior turned to leave.

"Wait!" she called to him.

He turned back.

Hermione reached inside her bag and pulled out a battered, small brown book. She handed it to him. Reading the cover, he said, "_Selected Poems of Elizabeth Barrett Browning_. Really, poems? Do I look like a bleeding, poetic reading fool?"

To which she only smiled and shrugged, then said, "You don't really look like you can read at all."

"Ah, well, that hurts, love," he remarked, taking the book in hand, and tucking it in his coat. Without another word, he left. Hermione sagged against the wall of the alley, and just then, she heard Harry calling, "Aren't you dressed yet, Hermione?"

"In a minute, Harry," she called back. In a minute.


	4. Chapter 4

**all characters belong to JKR**

* * *

**Chapter 4 – A Pulse and Too Much to Bear**

* * *

_Oh, she fluttered like a tame bird, in_

_Among its forest-brothers_

_Far too strong for it, then drooping,_

_Bowed her face upon her hands-_

_And I spake out wildly, fiercely, brutal_

_Truths of her and others:_

_I, she planted in the desert, swathed her,_

_Windlike, with my sands._

_From Lady Geraldine's Courtship by Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

Normally Hermione Granger was never reckless, especially lately, but too much time on her hands, too much monotony, too much sameness, too much idle, had caused her to feel a sort of recklessness, which in turn, made her want to seek_ him_ out.

That night in the alley, he told her that if she 'needed' him he would come. She knew she would never 'need' him in the full content of the word, yet here she was, in a Muggle diner, in the middle of the afternoon, her scarf in one hand (not wrapped around her neck), her wand in a hidden holster on her leg, and she was waiting for him to appear. That wasn't need – that was lunacy.

While Harry, Ron, and she were busy trying to discover a way inside the Ministry so they could steal the locket from Umbridge, they had each also been doing things on their own during the last few weeks. Harry explored more of 12 Grimmauld Place (ever searching for his past) and Ron listened daily on his radio for news of his family, and she hid away in an old guestroom on the third floor and she studied this scarf.

And found out that it wasn't really just a scarf, was it?

She'd studied the scarf for weeks before she decided on this course of action. Detecting no dark curses on the scarf, no true tracking device, no black magic, she thought she finally understood the magic he placed on it and she wanted to see if she were right. If she were right in her assumption about the scarf, than 'need' had nothing to do with the scarf. Want – Wish – Desire – Longing – those were better words in which to describe the spell that Scabior had placed on the simple article of clothing.

So this morning, while Harry and Ron went over their plans for retrieving the locket for the umpteenth time, and the polyjuice potion Hermione was making was still far from ready, Hermione pulled Harry's invisibility cloak out of his rucksack, told the boys she was going out for awhile, and before they could protest, she did just that.

Now she waited. In addition, it was the 19th of September no less - her birthday. And neither Harry nor Ron noticed this morning, but then again, they never really noticed any other year, so why should this year, a year that was so very different, BE any different? She could scarcely believe they had been gone from their families and friends for six weeks already. In her mind, it was very apropos that she should discover the hidden magic behind the scarf on the cusp of her 18th birthday, a day that was traditional for Muggle-borns, if not for wizards, finally to feel like an adult.

Staring out the diner window, she saw that it was beginning to rain. She checked her watch again, another half an hour gone. He wasn't coming. Could she have been wrong after all? Was the scarf's magic more of a 'locator' spell, which only he could enact, not the true 'desire' or 'honing' spell that she felt had to be two way?

The waitress pulled her from her thoughts and asked her if she wanted another cup of coffee. She ordered another cup along with a chocolate cupcake, so she could celebrate her birthday, even if by herself. Expelling a long, jagged sigh, she sipped the hot liquid, her eyes darting back and forth from her place at the last booth, at the back of the diner. He wasn't coming, but it was reckless for her to want him to, and it was reckless to be here, and it was reckless to have come alone, and it was reckless to have exposed her self to danger, and someone might have followed her…and…and…damn.

She put some Muggle money on the table and unwrapped the long, tartan scarf from around her wrist and arm. She let it glide off her arm, where it then slipped onto the red leather seat of the booth, down to the dirty green tiles of the floor. She would let it stay there, on the dirty floor. If he came now, he could see that she didn't care, not one bit, not one iota.

Swiping at the frosting on the cupcake before she stood to leave, she started to put her finger to her mouth, but before she could place it there, someone grabbed her wrist, startling her, as he pulled her body flush against his. He smiled at her, and then brought her finger up to his lips, before he placed it right into his mouth.

He sucked on it hard, his tongue swirling around the frosting on the tip. She felt the action all the way down to her toes, between her legs, through her breasts, down to the split ends of her hair.

Pulling her finger slowly from his mouth, while still holding it captive in his, he said, "Hmm, chocolate. It was good, but I personally prefer vanilla. Come to think of it, you taste a bit like vanilla, too."

She swallowed so hard she was sure he could hear it, along with her rapid pulse. Giving her a half smile, he pushed her back into the booth, none to gently, and then sat beside her, not opposite her, in the booth that looked out toward the diner.

Nodding toward the waitress, he said, "Another cup, sweets, for me and the pretty lady." He still had Hermione's hand in his, but he had moved his hand slightly so that he his thumb was pressing on her pulse point as he held her hand tightly in his grasp. The woman brought their coffee, Scabior winked at her, then after she left he said in a low voice, "This place is chock full of Muggles, gives me the willies, it does. Why are we here today, Beautiful?"

Hermione tried to pull her hand from his, but he held on tight. Using his left hand to pick up his cup of coffee, he didn't look at her. His eyes continued to scan the diner. Hermione finally said, "Are you that offended by being here among Muggles?"

"It's not that, love," he said steadily, placing his cup back down. He let go of her hand, then moved to the seat opposite of her, so that his back faced the restaurant. Placing his booted foot on the booth next to her, (to keep her from escaping?) he said, "I'm merely looking out for your friends. Where are they today?"

"You think I'd lay a trap for them by inviting you anywhere where they might be, ha!" Hermione ask, anger on her face.

He smiled again and said, "Ah, then it's just you and me here today. Is this a date? How sweet. Did you bring me flowers? Candy?" He picked up the cupcake, placed it back down, and then said, "I have to warn you, I don't snog a girl on the first date."

"You're reprehensible," she leveled, with a look of disgust.

"Yet you called me here, so what does that make you?" He pointed at her and said, "By the way, I came here at your beck and call, so to speak, which begs me to ask how you discovered the magic of the scarf?"

"You mean the little magical two-way honing device charm you put on it? A honing charm was a perfect thing for this, but that's the only compliment I'll give you. It's hard to imagine you were smart enough to come up with such a thing," she accused.

Scabior made a funny face. "Are you calling me dense? I'll have you know, I'm quite bright. Not as smart as you're known for being, but smart as a Snatcher as you'll ever encounter, I dare say." He took another drink of coffee and added, "Or at least I hope you'll never encounter another one, but let's not go down that avenue. Tell me, lovely girl, what do you think you know about the scarf."

Hermione couldn't help but smile as she explained, "In a metaphorical extension of the idea of a honing device, 'honing' has such a complex meaning in that it means to guide toward, or move toward something, but the word 'hone' also means to single out an enemy's weaknesses. Likewise, the word 'hone' means to want very much: to long for somebody or something. The honing charm can be placed on anything mundane, and an unsuspecting person would merely have to think of someone or something that they want or desire and it would come to them. Yes, a nice little charm if one thinks about it." Folding her arms in front of her, she gave him a 'so there' glare.

"I don't understand a blimey thing you just said to me, sweetness," he said with a grin. "Talk English please, even the Queen's English will do. Speaking of the scarf, where is it?"

Hermione glanced under the table. "On the floor."

He merely nodded. "So now that you understand the charm on it, and that it can work both ways, what do you intend to do about it?"

"I plan to leave it here, so you can't follow us," she accused.

He pointed his finger at her. "I don't think so, and let me tell you why." He took the toe of his other boot (the one not beside her on the booth seat) and he brought the scarf closer to him on the floor, then he leaned down and picked it up. "I don't think you went to all this trouble to find out how this thing worked, then went to all this, I don't know, call it adventurous, dangerousness today, to meet me here, just to tell me to take a flying leap off a bridge somewhere. You don't want to bid me farewell, lovely girl. You want something else from me today. Spill it, what is it you want."

"Nothing." She pushed on the foot on the seat beside her and demanded, "Now remove your foot so I can leave."

"No, no, no, not so fast, lovely girl." He threw the scarf back to her. She didn't even attempt to catch it. She let it hit her on the shoulder, and slip down to the seat beside her. "I think you came here for something else. Might as well tell me what you came for."

"Remove your foot," she ordered, trying once more to push it out of the way. He quickly reached across the yellowed Formica tabletop and grabbed her wrist.

"Remove the wand from your arse and tell me why you called me here today, sweetness, because…" but he stopped. His thumb moved across her pulse point again. She reached up with her other hand, to remove his, but he grabbed that one, too. Now he had both her wrists in his hands, and then he removed his foot from beside her to join his other one on the floor.

Continuing his thought, while she grimaced, he said, "Because, that's what you did, isn't it. You called me here today. Before, I was in perfect control of the magic of the scarf, but now that you know all about the charm, I'm at a mild disadvantage, but a disadvantage all the same."

"What do you mean?" she asked, trying in vain to pull her wrists free.

"Stop fussing so and I'll explain," he clarified. "Before, I came to you when you wanted me."

She started to protest, but he shook his head, spoke over her words, and said, "Just listen to me, sweetness, listen to me, bloody hell." He laughed, let go of her wrists, and sat back and took a long drink of his coffee. "You might think you didn't want me, but you did, but now that you know about the honing charm, you've changed things, haven't you. You've changed the magic a bit, somehow, you drew me here tonight under false pretenses, such as it is."

"What?" Hermione shook her head, slightly confused.

He leaned forward, brought his hand up to her cheek, and drew a line down her face with one finger. "You've changed the game, haven't you? You said it yourself; it's a honing charm, a two-way honing charm. Meaning, it works both ways. I can find you, but bloody hell, Beautiful, if I take that scarf back, you can find me too, and I can't have that, can I?"

"Why would I want to find you?" she asked with a deep breath.

"Why did you want me to come here today?" he asked softly. They sat in silence, staring at each other. His hand moved slowly back over toward hers. His thumb rubbed over her palm. "Don't fret so, you don't have to say, but you do have to take the scarf back."

"If you're afraid I'll find you or something, throw it in the rubbish bin, but I'll leave here today without it," Hermione vowed.

He raised his brows, and brought her hand up to his mouth again. The memory of how he licked the frosting from her fingertips moments ago fresh in her mind, she blushed, although this time he merely kissed her knuckles. "I'm afraid I must insist you take it. I have to know where you are now. I'm a bit obsessed with you, you see. I told you, I won't hurt Potter, or your other boyfriend, not as long as you're with them and I can help it, but…well, call me sentimental, but I'm getting attached to you. Anyway, as I said, you've changed the magic a bit already, without realizing it, hence the reason I'm here today. I'm already afraid you can force me to come when I want you, too. Bloody hell, but what am I to do with you. Take the scarf back."

Still slightly weary of his meaning she regarded him quietly for a few minutes more before she said a resounding, "No." She stood to leave. He stood as well, and blocked her way. Then he reached down to her seat and picked up the scarf.

"Aren't you afraid of being here alone? What if there were Death Eaters here?" he asked.

She looked around his body slightly, and then said, "I'm not easily scared and I can take care of myself."

Bringing the back of his hand down her face, he said, "Sweetness, why should you have to, that's the question, isn't it? You should have gone wherever you sent your parents."

Hermione's eyes grew wide and she pushed him slightly. "What do you know about my parents?" she hissed. "Leave them out of it!"

"I know the head of the Magical Police personally searched your parents' house, but they couldn't find any sign of where they went," he leveled.

Hermione tried to quell the panic that was rising in her chest. She wouldn't show this man fear. Still she said, "You'd better never hurt my parents."

"Still no sign of trust, I swear. Don't have parents myself, so I don't see what all the fuss is about, but they aren't going to be touched by me, love. No worries there." He smiled again, and then motioned toward a hallway near the back of the diner. It led toward the bathrooms and the back door. "Still, make old Scabior feel better about things and go out the back way, won't you, just in case the silly old Death Eaters are hanging out around front, 'right?"

Hermione started walking ahead of Scabior, feeling in her holster for her wand. She could feel his breath upon her neck; he was walking that closely to her, one hand on her shoulder. She could see that the scarf was wrapped around the hand on her shoulder. Once in the dark, narrow hallway, she turned to him and said, "I'll take the scarf back, but now that I know how to use it, I also know how not to use it, so don't expect for me to call you again."

"You never told me why you called me this time," he asked easily, pressing her body against the dark paneling near the door of the women's toilet.

Hermione wanted to tell him that it was her birthday. She wanted someone to wish her a 'happy birthday', to make her feel special, to tell you that they were sorry that she was by herself, alone, unloved, sad, lonely…yet she knew she shouldn't romanticize this man. He was dangerous. He was borderline psychotic. He was…reckless. Wait – so was she.

"It doesn't matter," she offered.

Smoothing his hand down her hair, leaning closer, he said in her ear, "I bet it really does, but fine, keep your secrets. I know I plan to keep mine." He pointed toward the backdoor and said, "There's the backdoor. There really are Death Eaters on the street out front. Disapparate away after you leave the building."

She shivered slightly, then pushed away from him and nodded. Starting back down the hallway, he grabbed for her again, his hand snaking once more around her wrist.

Hermione's mouth opened, she stared at him, but no words came out. He pulled her toward him, and then pushed her into the small bathroom behind him. Whipping her around quickly, confusing her, disorienting her, he practically slammed her against the fake wood of the bathroom's door, reached out and took her chin in his hand, pointing her face upwards to his, and said, "Oh, and Beautiful, by the way, have a very Happy Birthday."

Hermione stiffened, defiantly, as she gazed up at him. Then she turned her head to the right side, to stare at the small, frosted window high above the commode, which was broken in the corner. A tear crept down the side of her face and she squeezed her eyes closed so that no more would escape.

Damn this man. Damn his black soul to hell and back again.

She moved her chin from his hand, so he moved his hand from her chin, down her shoulder, to her arm, then her hand. Opening her eyes, she pulled her gaze from the broken, frosted window back to his eyes, and they stared at each other for many long moments. He had as much tension in his long body as she did in her agile form, and she saw heat, desire, and something foreign flicker in his gaze.

His other hand went to the pulse on her neck. "Are you going to have a happy birthday, Hermione?"

Hermione closed her eyes again at the sound of her name on his tongue. This man didn't love her. He didn't even like her, and she didn't know what she felt for him. They felt desire for each other, nothing more, and that wasn't enough, was it? Was it?

"You don't have to answer me, but you do have to open your eyes," he said against her cheek, "and well, yes, answer my question." When she looked up into his face, his eyes darkened and she knew that if she let him kiss her again, she would be lost to him forever. If she let desire overtake her this time, she would be a slave to him the next time. It didn't matter that he didn't even respect her, because she wouldn't respect herself any longer.

He pulled her closer and said, "Cat got your tongue? If not, may I have it?" Then he bent his head more and placed his hot mouth over hers. She pressed her hands on his chest, to push him away, really she did, but ended up pushing her hands under his coat, then through the layers of his clothing instead.

His arms tightened around her like bands of steel. She wasn't in control, she wasn't calm, and she wasn't collected. SHE WAS RECKLESS. Her pulse was dancing wildly as her blood danced through her veins.

He shook her shoulders, and she blinked then fully opened her eyes. She almost said she was sorry, but then he moaned, pulled her back, moved his hands down her back, over her bum, and pulled her up against him, as his hands went down her sides in even, full strokes. The intimate movement of his hands, his caresses, shocked her, and she knew it was wrong, but for once, she didn't care. Convinced it would be the last time she would see him, she would give herself this one last moment of freedom and then she would throw away the scarf and make a vow never to think of the man again.

Knowing that she should feel repulsed, appalled, because he was doing things that no one had ever done to her before, she wondered what she would do if he touched her breasts. She no sooner thought it then he reached up and placed a hot, heavy palm on her left breast, this thumb pushing hard on the center, causing an ache to form in every fiber of her being.

Even as his thumb continued to circle her nipple, his mouth moved from hers, down to her neck. He pulled her jacket and shirt up and exposed her bare stomach, then his hand went under her clothing, pushed aside the scrap of silk that was her bra, and he touched the bare skin of her breasts and she gasped louder.

Her head fell back and hit the door hard, eyes closed, blinding desire blossoming deep within her. Hermione felt his lips and tongue wet on the skin on her bare stomach, looked back down, and for the first time, she saw a bright red streak in his hair. She thought it was an odd time to notice such a thing. Then his lips went around her nipple and he sucked hard and her legs gave out and she moaned.

He held her up, one arm around her hips, his mouth moving across her flat stomach, his other hand moving aside her clothing to accommodate his lips.

With her head moving side to side, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror to the left of her and the image shocked her. Closing her eyes tight once more, she grabbed a handful of his hair, yanked hard, and forced his head back.

He looked up at her from his place on the floor.

She said one word. "No."

So he stopped.

Then he closed his eyes, but he managed to stand. Leaning against her, dropping his face into the crook of her neck, he said, "Hell, passion is highly overrated anyway, and it's your birthday, so I guess you get what you want, if you're sure stopping is what you want."

When she didn't say another word, he adjusted his long, leather coat to cover his lower body, then he straighten her clothing, and she let him. Shaking all over, in embarrassment, fury, and other emotions unknown, Hermione turned her head first toward the left, but she couldn't bear to look at the mirror again, so she turned it back toward the right, and looked at the broken window, even as he wrapped the scarf around her neck, and pulled her from against the door.

Then he did what she thought was the oddest thing of all. He embraced her. A small embrace, hardly a hug, but an embrace all the same, and he was out the door before her.

She turned, locked the bathroom door, sank to the floor, cried for ten minutes, then pulled the invisibility cloak out of her bag, placed it over her, and Disapparated back to 12 Grimmauld Place.


	5. Chapter 5

**all characters belong to JRK**

* * *

**Chapter 5 – Tremble Because He's Near**

* * *

_Unless he gives me all in change, _

_I forfeit all things by him:_

_The risk is terrible and strange –_

_I tremble, doubt…deny him._

_Verse 9_

'_Amy's Cruelty'_

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

Sitting alone by the mouth of the tent, every noise was magnified tenfold. Each rustling of leaves made her tremble with fear and trepidation. Every whisper of the wind through the trees made her quiver with unease.

It was all such a mess. Things happened so fast today. Things didn't go as they had planned and now Ron was hurt – his arm nearly severed from a Disapparition that had gone wrong, and somehow she felt it was all her fault.

At least they'd managed to find the locket, along with Professor Moody's eye, although she found the fact that Harry took the eye rather morbid. After she managed to Apparate them to these woods, she healed Ron the best that she could. Harry and she set up the tent and put up protection spells and then they tried every spell they could to destroy the Horcrux.

It remained intact.

Since Ron was still very ill, and Harry was very depressed (why hadn't Dumbledore told him how to destroy the locket?) she decided to take the first watch on their very first night of their journey.

Shivering in the chilly, autumn air, of the early evening, she couldn't help but wonder if Scabior was nearby. She hated thinking of that man at such times as these, but she couldn't control her thoughts anymore than she could control the sun, the moon, the stars, or the rotation of the earth.

She saw him today at the Ministry, while she was under disguise with the polyjuice potion. Walking down to the courtrooms beside Umbridge, she walked right by him as he and some other Snatchers were escorting two men throughout the Atrium. It almost sickened her to see him like that. One of the men they were escorting looked bruised and battered, and Scabior looked pleased as punch.

The strangest thing happened, too. Although Hermione was under the magic of polyjuice potion, and there was no way he could have recognized her, when she walked by him he actually turned and looked right at her – stared right in her eyes. She stared at him in return, for the briefest second, and then swiftly turned away.

She couldn't let her slight obsession with that man sway her from her task. He was scum, a malefactor, nothing short of reprobate who preyed on those who had no one to fight for them. The man his fellow Snatchers were escorting was a Muggle-born. He was begging them to let him go…saying that he was a wizard just like them…he had done nothing wrong…he had a family…a wife…children.

One of the Snatchers used physical force on the man and hit him on the back of the head. Hermione heard him scream right as she entered the lift. She kept her gaze on the floor so she wouldn't betray her reason for being there.

What if that had been her? Would he have pulled her through the atrium of the Ministry, wrists bound, beaten and battered, as she begged for mercy? Would he smile and have a smug expression on his face when he did? Was that his game? Was that what he wanted with her? Was that his final goal?

Hermione had to use her brain. She couldn't let this man get to her, or Harry, or Ron. She wouldn't be stupid again. Even though she wore his scarf around her neck, she knew that she would not, could not, let him manipulate her ever again.

Another rustling in the trees nearby caused her to turn her head to the side, stop thinking of things, right or wrong, and grip her wand tightly. She stood to investigate the sound, praying that her wards and protection spells would hold.

She walked to the very edge of her wards and then froze. She knew her charms and spells should block sounds as well as them and their tent, but still, she practically held her breath when she saw people approach the thicket of trees. Holding as immobile as she could, she couldn't help but quaver slightly when she watched the werewolf Greyback, carrying a young woman, walk by her, followed by two of the Snatchers she saw at the Ministry earlier, pulling a man whose hands were bound magically. Bringing up the rear was Scabior.

She froze in abject horror and fright.

He walked directly in front of her, close enough that she could touch him if she had wanted.

Then inexplicably, he stopped, took a step back, and turned to face her. He had the strangest look on his face. She could almost swear that he 'knew' she was there, yet she knew there was no way he did. One of his fellow malcontents called out for him to hurry. He ignored them. Inhaling deeply, he frowned.

"Hurry up, Scabior, we don't have all evening. We have to get this lot to the Ministry!"

Turning his head toward the speaker, he said, "Go on without me. I'll catch up eventually, or perhaps I won't."

Hermione remained quiet and still, her heart beating an irregular cadence, her breath coming out in short little bursts. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the others walk away, while he remained, with the same bemused, anxious, almost angry look in his eyes.

Then he inhaled again, deeper this time. He reached out his hand – she took a step back. Breathing harder yet, but trying to remain quiet, she gripped her wand so hard that the wood dug into the tender flesh of her hand.

Finally, with an annoyed look in his eyes, he turned to leave, looked back once, and then walked away.

Hermione exhaled the breath she was holding, and loosened her grip on her wand. Harry walked up behind her. She felt his presence, but she didn't turn to face him. Instead, she continued to stare at the empty place in the woods where Scabior had stood, in the ever-darkening forest.

"Hermione?"

"Harry."

"At least you know your wards hold," he assured her, giving her shoulder a pat.

"But he knew I was here. He smelled my perfume," she revealed.

"Who knew you were here? That man?" Harry grabbed her hand and held it in his.

Turning her gaze to his, she wondered if she had revealed too much. "Yes. I'm wearing a perfume that reminds me of my mother, called 'Beautiful'. It makes me feel close to her, and I think he smelled it."

Harry brought her hand up to his mouth and gave it a simple kiss. "I'm sure he didn't smell your perfume. I can't smell it. You're just on edge. Let me wear the locket now and stand guard."

Shaking her head no, she did however, pull the locket over her head and hand it to him. "Here, you can wear it, or at least keep it safe for the night, but I'll continue to stand guard. I'm not sleepy at all. Go on, get in there and check on Ron before you go to sleep."

"Are you sure? I am tired," Harry replied.

Smiling a sad smile, her hand still entwined in his, she nodded. "Yes, go on, I'm fine."

"Wake me around three in the morning, and I'll take over," he pledge. With a sigh, he placed the locket in the front pocket of his jeans and walked inside the tent, pulling the flap shut.

Hermione pulled the scarf tighter around her, and then sat down near a tree, a slight distance from the tent, but still close by. The sky was almost completely dark now, and there was a definite nip in the air. She wished she had asked Harry for a blanket, or had gotten her heavier sweater, but perhaps the cold would keep her awake.

With her back to a tree, her wand on her lap, she pulled the book Dumbledore had given her out of the back pocket of her jeans and opened it to read. She'd already cast a charm on it so that it could be read in the dark, so reading it tonight proved no effort.

Reading a story she had already read a few times, she was startled when she heard a sound behind the very tree where she propped her back. Placing the book on the ground beside her, and holding her wand tight, she waited to hear the sound again.

And she did.

"Did you think to hide from me, my girl?"

From the sound of his voice, Hermione judged him to be standing right behind the tree where she sat. That didn't mean he knew she was near this tree, but yet knowing him, he probably did.

She looked up, and sure enough, he was standing next to the tree, propped against it as if he hadn't a care in the world. Hermione hated him for that. Standing quietly, still frightened, she faced him. She wouldn't speak, even though she was certain there was no real way he knew she was there.

However, he showed no such restraint. Continuing to speak, as if he knew she was nearby, he said, "I know you're there, sweetness. I smell you, but more than that, I feel you." His hand went to his chest, and he thumped it twice. "Right here, I do."

Swallowing hard, she took a step backwards.

"Did you think you could escape me? Did you think I'd let you?" he asked, pushing away from the tree. Walking back and forth in front of her, he said, "Caused quite the ruckus at the Ministry, you three did. Polyjuice potion, huh? Who would have thought it? They won't underestimate you again, that's for certain. And you stole a certain something from the Undersecretary, didn't you?"

Hermione knew he didn't mean for her to answer, not that he could hear her if she did, still, she wondered what else this man knew. She wished she could ask him a few questions, but that would be foolhardy, and she wouldn't make that mistake again. Clutching the scarf tightly in one hand, her wand in the other, she steadied her breathing, blinked slowly, and sat down to listen to him speak. If nothing else, it would entertain her, keep her awake, and inform her of what he knew.

He remained standing, but it was uncanny how he seemed to direct his conversation at her, though she knew he couldn't see her. "Everyone was talking about how Potter broke into the Ministry, right under everyone's bloody noses, and how smart and brave he was, but I know better. That whole scheme smelled of my girl, didn't it?"

Suddenly, he squatted down on his haunches and reached out his hand, scaring her into thinking that he could see her, sense her, so she scrambled backwards. There was no reason for her to do so, because he reached for blank air. He sat down on the ground. She remained a good distance away.

"Some say that a couple of you were hurt while escaping." He scooted backwards until his back was against the tree, his long legs in front of him, feet crossed at the ankle. "I have to admit, I'm glad to know it wasn't you. Do you want to know how I know you weren't the one that was hurt? The scarf of course. It still connects us, whether you want it to or not. I can sense you. You, my girl, are connected to me, just as I am to you, and that's how I know you're fine."

Hermione looked down at the scarf in her hand, the Merino wool soft against her skin. She almost wanted to cry. What was she doing? If what he said was true, she had to burn it, bury it, destroy it, before it destroyed her.

Perhaps he was playing with her head. He probably didn't even really know she was here. Leaning over, she picked up the discarded book of children's stories, and then decided she'd go sit back beside the mouth of the tent. He could continue to talk to the trees and the empty air.

Standing to take her leave, she stopped when he said, "Hey, darling, wait a moment before you leave."

With a breath and a sob mingled together, caught deep in her throat, she turned around slowly and looked at him. How did he know she was walking away?

"Just give me a sign to let me know you weren't hurt. Call me sentimental, but I'd sleep better if I knew these things for certain."

If she walked past her wards, or lifted her protection spells, he'd take her into custody, just as surely as those people he had with him earlier in the woods, or the man he had with him at the Ministry. She knew it. Standing motionless, hardly breathing, but absentmindedly stroking the ends of the scarf, she waited.

Then he stood, and once again, just as before, he stood before her, looking bored, indifferent, and at total ease.

This time, she experienced a sense of relief, because she thought he was going to leave. Peering upon his face, she really did think he was handsome. Dark hair, long, elegant fingers, beautiful eyes. Tall. He was very tall. She would guess he was about thirty years old, now that she looked at him closely, without worrying that he was looking back at her.

And she wished she could say that she was scared of him. She wished she could say truthfully that she hated him. She wished she feared him, even a little. She didn't know him, she didn't even really want to know him. She didn't trust him, she didn't like him, but yet there was something in his posture, his manner, his quirky way of speaking, which enticed her.

"Well, my girl, are you going to make me wait all bloody night to know if you got hurt or not? Give me some sort of sign. I don't expect you to lift your fucking wards for me, but give me credit, because I already know you're here, yet I haven't told anyone, have I? So would it hurt you to give me some sort of little sign to know you're alright?"

That one sentence gave her pause. No, he hadn't told anyone of their whereabouts - that much was true. He had already left and had returned…alone. He could have brought Death Eaters with him, but he hadn't. He could have brought more Snatchers with him, but he hadn't. He came back alone.

Hermione thought for a moment, then she remembered a spell that she'd seen in a defense book that Professor Moody had given her. Thinking hard to recall the correct incantation, she closed her eyes, waved her hand, and said the spell silently.

A barrier, thin and mist like, formed between them, so that they could see each other, almost as if a window had appeared between them.

"Ah, there's my girl. I knew you were there." He reached out for her, only to draw his hand back when he realized that he couldn't touch her. "What's this?"

"You can only see me, but you can't touch me or breach the protection wards."

"And so she speaks," he said with a smile, "Only to tell me that she doesn't trust me, but at least she speaks." He walked closer, so close that they almost stood nose to nose. Lighting his wand, he moved it up and down her body. When he saw the cuts and abrasions on her face, he frowned. "Looks like you've been through the wringer, love. I hope the other bloke got it just as bad." Then he smiled again, but this time the smile seemed forced and strained.

"You smelled my perfume earlier, didn't you?" she asked, ignoring his comments, and wanting to know if her suspicion was correct.

He nodded with one brief nod of his head.

"I'll make sure I don't wear it again," she added.

He made no comment to that. "Is one of your boyfriends injured badly? That's the rumor."

"I won't confirm that with you," she leveled. "In fact, I shalln't talk with you ever again. This is the last time you shall ever see me. Now go away and leave me alone. Goodbye."

She stepped away from the small portal that she'd made, but he called out, "Now, now, now, love, let's not be too hasty or harsh. We both know that's not true, as well. And I think we also both know that you can trust me, because I could have turned you in, many times over, just as you could have killed me right now, if you wanted to, so let's not talk anymore about goodbyes. There'll be no goodbyes between us, my girl. None at all."

She sighed and said, "I can't do this anymore. You don't understand. There's no cause or reason for it."

"Does there have to be a reason for it?" he asked.

"Yes, there does!" she insisted. "I don't even particularly like you!"

He laughed at that.

Hermione couldn't help herself, she laughed too. It felt good to laugh, especially after everything that she'd been through today. "Listen, I have to go. I don't know if I'll see you again or not, but it's very risky, and I can't take risks with Ron or Harry's lives. It's not my place to do so. It's my place to take care of them, not risks their lives. Therefore, yes, I'm afraid its goodbye."

She turned to leave once again.

Stunning her, he reached through the portal she'd made in her protection wards and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her through to his side.

Stumbling into him, his face hovered right above hers. Eyes wide with shock, more than fear, she struggled for control even as the heat of his body pressed upon her, warming the chill that had filled her all evening. One hand tangled in her hair as the other went smoothly down her cheek.

She was rendered as mute as she was when he spoke to her earlier, but this time it was more because she felt prickles and trembles of anticipation and scandalous responses from being close to him again.

His breath was like a whisper of wind against her face. She closed her eyes even before the hint of intimacy came, tempted by what was to come and by the hint of shame that came with the threat of pleasure that was sure to engulf her very soul until she smothered every last sensible thought.

Such as how much she disliked him. Or, how she knew she didn't love him, because she could never love someone who didn't love her.

Nevertheless, to have one last kiss, one last hint of happiness, even if it was feigned, even if it was false, even if she did dislike this man, was too much to ignore.

His kiss felt real. It felt hot, hard, demanding, domineering, and she wanted it to continue forever and ever. Her breasts felt heavy, her head felt light, her knees felt wobbly, and she knew she was pathetic and she didn't even care.

Not knowing if she could stop it, she didn't even have to try, because he stopped it this time, by drawing his head up from hers, brushing his index finger over her red, swollen, freshly kissed lips once, then twice. With the same finger, he touched a small cut on her face, then kissed the wound, before he closed his eyes.

Wincing audibly, he turned her around, pushed her back through the little hole she created in her protection ward, then said, "That's how much the scarf connects us. I can even pull you through a handy little protection ward." He seemed angry again, as he turned from her, adding unexpectedly, "I wish I could kill the bastard who hurt you."

"That's insane," she responded, bringing her hand up to her mouth. Then, "This is insane. All of this – you and I, kissing, everything, it's all insane! I don't even like you, not at all, and I know I certainly don't love you or anything! I was just thinking that I could never love someone who didn't love me, and I can't believe I keep going around risking everything for someone that I don't love!"

"And you broke through my protection ward! What was I thinking?" Waving her hand in front of her, the hole disappeared, and she was back behind the protection of the ward. He could no longer see or hear her, though she could still see him.

His back still to her, she didn't know what he was doing at first when he reached inside his leather coat for something. Pulling out an object, turning to face her, he held a book in his hand. "This is your book of poetry, remember?"

She didn't answer, not that he would know if she had or not.

"I read it. Are you surprised – no don't answer that. You're probably just surprised that I can read, am I right?" He laughed at his own little joke. Opening the book, he read aloud, _"Love me, sweet, with all thou art, feeling, thinking, seeing. Love me in the lightest part. Love me in full being. Love me with thine open youth, in its frank surrender; with the vowing of thy mouth, with its silence tender. Love me with thine azure eyes, made for earnest granting. _Then he added…Love me."

Closing the book again, he stuffed it back inside an inner pocket of his long duster, started to leave, but then turned back to her, as if he suddenly thought of something new to say. "Oh, sweetheart, about not liking me, that's fine, because that nasty aversion to me will pass away. I know it. I'll come back to talk again soon."

Hermione watched as he walked away, finishing the rest of the poem that he'd started in her head as she continued her watch throughout the night.

* * *

_*remember, I'll try to update this story every Sunday night if I can!_


	6. Chapter 6

**all characters belong to JKR**

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Wash Away Your Sins**

* * *

_With stammering lips and insufficient sound_

_I strive and struggle to deliver right_

_That music of my nature, day and night,_

_With dream and thought and feeling interwound,_

_And inly answering all the senses round_

_With octaves of a mystic depth and height_

_Which step out grandly to the infinite_

_From the dark edges of the sensual ground…_

_Part one of The Soul's Expression _

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

The air around Hermione was laced with wind, rain, and a strange blend of cold and humidity. The sound of the rain bounced off the metal train car, humbling her, making her feel safer than she should, ensconce in its infinite care. As the rain dinged the metal boxcar, she moved away from the open doorway so that the splashing water couldn't touch her as it formed a puddle on the floor of her rusted, abandoned hideaway.

The early afternoon shower washed away the grime of the day, but Hermione already felt cleaner than she had in weeks. Due in part to the shower she had taken hours ago, when Harry, Ron and she had found an empty caravan, devoid of its inhabitants, (and most creature comforts) except for hot-running water and a few other essentials such as food. All three showered, ate a healthy breakfast, and after leaving Muggle money on a small table, the boys went back to the tent, which was hidden under a low, stone railway bridge.

Hermione came here.

She told the boys she needed some time to herself. She needed to forget about the Horcrux search, the locket, the constant squabbling between Harry and Ron. She wanted to forget the sensation of hopelessness, helplessness, and homelessness. She finally felt somewhat cleaner, and she didn't want to waste that by going back inside that dirty, dingy tent.

Grabbing her book, her comb, and changing into fairly clean clothing, she hoisted herself up into the 'at one time' red railway car, long since forsaken, old and long forgotten, and then she waited.

Because she knew he would come.

Now, after being here with him for the last hour and a half, she not only felt cleaner of her body, but she felt cleaner of her soul - because of the purging. With her mind free from her current worries, she had relayed her entire childhood to the man beside her, and he listened with rapt attention, only interrupting if he had a comment to make, or a question to ask.

She reminisced about her earliest memories, recalled her fondest moments. She spoke passionately of her parents, her home, her life before magic, and her life after. She talked of her hopes and dreams of the future. It was just what she needed to feel whole and clean again.

He once told her he would come to her when she needed him the most. The more she rambled endlessly and excessively about her life, the more she realized that he _had come_ just when she needed him most, and that she didn't want him to leave, she wasn't going to fight her growing attraction to him, and that **it was what it was**, and she was going to accept it.

While Harry and Ron were safe in the tent, under an old railroad bridge, and she was sequestered in the rusted old boxcar beside a man who may or may not be her enemy, she droned on and on about her life, and Scabior listened.

Hermione listened to the rain as it splattered on the roof above her. With the doors ajar, she watched the midst roll in like waves from the humidity and rain, surrounding the scenery like a blanket, keeping all things safe inside, even as things thundered and threatened to destroy all things outside this safe cocoon.

It was an apt analogy, for inside her heart - inside her memories - she felt happy and safe from the things that would inflict pain. She felt happy and safe inside this derelict train car, if only for one hour, if only for one day, sitting side by side, not touching, her talking, him listening, him asking questions, her answering.

"…And they never questioned your magic? They never thought it was something dark or unholy?" he asked. She shivered before she answered, so without another word, he shucked his jacket from his arms and moved to place it around her shoulders.

It was heavy, warm, and it smelled very good – like him. Grabbing the collar, holding it in her hands, she said, "No, they embraced it from day one. Truthfully, it was as if they always knew there was something special about me. I think they almost expected it. They were proud of me."

"They think your magic is special? They're proud of it? They don't think it's an abnormality, or an abomination?" Scabior asked sincerely.

She smirked and replied, "It's only our kind that applies those words to Muggle-borns these days, or maybe they've always thought that, actually. Maybe including me in the phrase 'our kind' is the quintessential problem to this entire war."

Quieted by her statement, he nudged her shoe with his booted foot and said, "Let's not get too deep in here; our boots will be trodden with something besides mud. No matter, as it sounds like you had a truly idyllic childhood, with happy, loving parents, sweet love."

At first, she thought this acerbic man was making fun of her, but she noticed he was being frank, so with a hint of remorse and sadness, she claimed, "That I did."

"And you miss them a lot," he said, didn't ask.

"I've missed them plenty over the years, and now is no different," she answered carefully, pulling on the scarf she wore loosely around her neck.

Reaching over, he pulled on one end of the scarf, tugging it from its home around her neck and through her still slightly damp curls. He wrapped it around one hand and arm first, then he placed it around his own neck. "But you don't have to, lovely. Why don't you go hide out wherever they are, just until this war's over? When it's all over, and all of this is behind you, you can come back out in the open."

She pulled on the other end of the scarf, just as it dropped from her neck, and he was tying it around his own. They both held one end. "But if I leave, the war might never end, or if it does, it might end in such a way that I'll never be able to come out into the open. Also, I can't abandon my friends."

Shrugging his jacket off her shoulders, she reached behind her and handed it back to him, adding, "Take it. I want my scarf back."

He shook his head no, stood, and went to the other side of the empty boxcar. Sitting opposite her, with his legs out in front of him, and his feet almost touching hers, he said, "What if I said you either leave now, today, or I'll take you into custody. It's that simple."

Hermione stared into his eyes, searching for truth. She thought the truth was that he wanted her to be safe, and she would be safer away from all of this, thus he wanted to send her away, even if he had to threaten her to do so. "You wouldn't do that."

He shrugged, as if what he had said didn't matter, and as if her response didn't matter either. Nevertheless, she was too smart to believe either of those thoughts, and she knew he was too smart to try to convince her otherwise. Instead, she knocked her foot into his, sat forward, pulled on one end of the scarf, and said, "Tell me about your childhood."

Either he didn't hear her, or he didn't want to hear her, or the most likely scenario, he pretended NOT to hear her, because he announced, "I bet you were your father's little princess, weren't you? A dear and precocious child, the light of her granny's eye, her mum's pride and joy. Every girl in your school hated you because you were smarter than them, and every boy had wet dreams about you every night."

Drawing her knees up to her chin, she chided, "Don't be crude. And you have some of that right, some of that wrong, and some of that slightly backwards. I was never a little princess. I was precocious in the sense that I was bright and intelligent. Both sets of grandparents died before I was born. The boys and girls both hated me at school, maybe because I was smarter than them, maybe because I was a Mudblood, maybe because I was Harry Potter's best friend, but I couldn't worry about that."

"And the wet dream part?" He smiled.

She smiled in return. "That's the part you were crude about, and no, I was never anyone's wet dream."

"I bet that's not true. Not even the gingers'?" he asked, suddenly a scowl on his face.

She swallowed hard. Lately, Ron had been acting as if he had wanted more from their relationship, and if it hadn't been for this man, perhaps Hermione would have wanted more as well. Still hugging her knee, she chose not to answer. Instead, she decided not to let him get off so easily this time, therefore she asked him again, "What of your childhood? What was it like?"

"For one thing, I would have both hated you, and had wet dreams about you in school, make no mistake about that, lovely. I would have hated you on principle, being a Slytherin, and you being a swotty, little Gryffindor, but I don't doubt I would have pulled your hair, made you cry, and then kidnapped you into an abandoned broom closet somewhere and snogged your brains out."

Hermione laughed outright. It felt good. "You're a pureblood, then?"

"Who knows? Mum was a whore, wasn't she?" he said rather flippantly. "Dear old dad could have been anyone. Mum was a half blood. Always said me dad was a Death Eater, actually, but one never knows these things, since I never got to make his acquaintance. The man never even had the courtesy of giving me his last name, hence the reason my moniker is a single one."

"Tell me more," she urged.

He almost seemed to wince. Crawling over toward her again, with his coat in one hand, he draped it across her legs and said, "Hell, it was nothing as grand as yours, little love. After your fairy tale, my story would seem like a horror story, and believe me, there's no happy ending in my life story."

That statement made her sadder than it should have. "You don't know that yet. You know, your choice of poems the other day gave me pause and insight into your way of thinking, and it made me think that you thought that very thing. It's as if you think it's a foregone conclusion that your life won't end well. Why is that?"

Stroking the side of her face with the back of his hand, he pleaded, "Don't worry, my girl. It was just a poem, from a book you gave me, I might add."

Staring into his eyes, refusing to look away, telling him that she dared him to continue, she finally said, "I refuse to believe the poem you picked was a mere happenstance."

"Believe whatever you wish."

He stood and walked toward the open, sliding doors. Reaching up for a rusted chain, he grabbed it with one hand and pulled on it, thus pulling the chain through a pulley, causing the doors to close slightly. The sound of metal scraping against metal was caustic and loud. When the door was left open only a small fraction and the light inside the boxcar was more tomb-like than before, he finally sat back down beside her.

Then, and only then, when the light was low, and the air was damp and dank, did he begin to tell her his tale. It was as if he needed the dark to tell her something dark. Before he did, he removed the scarf, bound it around Hermione's wrist, then around his own. "Mum was a whore. Made her living on her back. As I said, that's why I wear no man's name, for no man's name really belongs to me."

"Do you have any siblings…brothers…sisters?" Hermione asked when he had become silent again, after only having started his story.

"I had one sister. Her name was Eleanor. I called her Ellie. Pretty little girl with inky-dark plaits, big blue eyes, the colour of cornflowers, and knobby little knees." He touched Hermione's eyelids, one at a time, then her nose, then her lips, which he traced back and forth.

Almost too afraid to ask, but needing to all the same, she quizzed, "Where is she now? What happened to her?"

The air in the enclosed car grew fixed and warm from the humid air, even though it was cold and damp outside, and the rain still spattered down hard on the metal housing around them. Even so, a chill emanated from the man sitting close to Hermione, their legs were touching, their shoulders were touching, and even their arms were touching. Hermione could swear that their souls were touching.

"One of the old hag's boyfriends decided he'd rather have a fresh young thing instead of an old tired whore. He raped my sister, and then when she threatened to tell on him, he killed her." Before Hermione could process what he'd said, he pulled her over to his lap, with his hands on her shoulders, clutching them hard, he shook her, and with a slight rise in his voice he added, "She was only eight years old."

Hermione began to cry – not because Scabior was hurting her, but out of empathy, because of his story, for his sister, and for him.

Taking the end of the scarf from around his wrist, he wiped Hermione's tears from her cheeks and said, "Don't cry, sweetness." After he was done, he continued. "Me mum cried and cried that day, too, but unlike you, she didn't cry because a little girl lost her life. She cried because she didn't want her boyfriend sent to Azkaban."

Feeling another tear slip down her face, she brushed it aside. "Oh, Scabior."

"When I found out about it, I took care of that though, yes I did. I gutted the old tosser in the gut with a knife, like a fish. Knew I couldn't use magic on him, so I used a knife. He didn't die right away. He bled so much. I was twelve years old, home for Holiday from Hogwarts during my first year there. Maybe if I hadn't gone to school she'd still be alive."

Hermione placed her head on his shoulder. Bringing his hand up to cup her face, he prodded, "There, there, don't cry. She's been dead for eighteen years, since you were first born."

"I'm not crying just for her. I'm crying for you," she leveled.

He didn't acknowledge that statement, but he did start to stroke her long, now dry hair, slowly, with one hand. "I'm so sorry for what happened to you and your sister," Hermione forged ahead, unwilling to be deterred. "You lost your childhood the day you were forced to kill that man."

"What a strange one you are, lovely," he admitted, "and nothing happened to me."

"Yes it did." Hermione looked up at him, tears still on her face. "You lost your innocence, your childhood, on that day,"

"What a way to put it. Only you would think of that, beautiful. As it remained, the Ministry took me away from me mum, and I was sent to an orphanage on every holiday after that, The same orphanage that the future Dark Lord attended."

Still upon his lap, she squirmed until she sat between his legs. His arms around her, she asked, "Is that why you follow him, because you went to the same orphanage? "

With her head back on his chest, looking up at him, he touched her nose with his index finger and stated, "I don't follow him. I could care less about him. I follow my nose. It's my talent, part of my enhanced magical ability, not that anyone would ever praise me for it, like your parents did with you."

She moved again, and he did as well. He propped his right leg up, his knee up, and her back against it. She turned to stare at him, her legs going across his left leg. "Your talent?" she asked for clarification.

"My talent," he insisted. "I can find almost anyone, at anytime, with my superior sense of smell, and my uncanny ability to locate people and things, as well as my magical ability to do the same."

"I proposed the use of my gifts to the Ministry when the Dark Lord took over, and he found great use for them. Previously, I used my talent for other pursuits, but after the Dark Lord came around, I saw an opportunity and I took it. Before me, they were going to use that great oaf, Greyback, to hunt all the Muggle-borns, but instead, they use my crew and me. I'm the only one who can keep that fucking werewolf in line." He seemed proud of his statement, his accomplishments, his goals.

She frowned deeper, moved away from him, and pleaded, "But don't you see? You use your 'gift' to hunt and hurt 'my' kind!"

"Better me than Greyback. He's obsessed with you, beautiful! If he were hunting you, you'd be dead by now," he said with anger, pushing her away more, and pulling the scarf from around his wrist, to let it drop back to the floor.

"But don't you see, Scabior?" Hermione replied, "It's wrong, whether you hunt me or someone else. In the long run, you should just let Greyback have at me!"

He pulled on her arm with his hand again, and scathed, "Don't say that, even in jest! He'd rape you and then kill you, and do things you've never even heard of before, lovely girl. I won't let that happen, even if at the end of it, I have to sell my soul to keep him from you – I will. I may be obsessed with you too, but at least I wouldn't wish you harm."

Thunder began to roll outside. The rain grew louder on the boxcar.

"You're obsessed with me," she repeated, almost as if she didn't believe it, yet she gave him a ghost of a beguiling smile.

"Utterly, completely, and unequivocally," he waned, adding, "Beautiful."

"Please, stop calling me that. I don't like it. I don't mind the other names, but that one I'd rather you not call me." She scowled at him and turned away.

Once more, he took her arm in his hand, pulling her almost to his lap. "Why?" he asked, "It's true."

Hermione turned and pushed him as hard as she could, pushing him over and away from her. He winced, in pain, his right hand going to his left shoulder. Immediately, she crawled over to him. "What's wrong with you?"

"Why do you care?" he asked, sitting back up, leaning against the wall of the empty boxcar, reaching over with his right hand for his jacket which was by Hermione's feet.

She kicked it away, went up on her knees, then straddled his lap. His eyes opened in shock and surprise, his right hand went to her hip. She seemed not to notice – as she was too busy unbuttoning his waistcoat, then his long sleeve shirt.

Slipping both off his chest and arms, she halted, finally aware of his bare chest and shoulders in front of her, of his right hand moving on her hip and waist, of his face so close to hers that their breaths mingled and mixed. Every instinct told her to move away, yet they also told her to find out what was wrong with his arm, for there was a black, charred, raw area on his left bicep, which looked to be the result of a curse or spell.

Examining him carefully, he didn't even jolt, not even when she hovered closer to examine the wound. "What happened to you?" After she asked him, she looked up into his face and though the light was darker in the car, (thanks to the fact that he partially closed the door) she could see that he looked paler than usual, and he lacked his usually cockiness. This man had been hurt, and in pain, and had said nothing.

Her left hand still on his smooth skin of his arm, her right on the expanse of his bare chest, she said his name, "Scabior?" She wanted an answer.

"What do you want me to say, my girl? Even I'm not indestructible. Even I can be hurt, or killed, and it got me thinking…about you, about everything. You need to go away. You need to go somewhere safe."

Now she ignored his comment. Leaning back on his long legs, she extended one of hers, pulled up her jeans to expose one of her calves and exposed a leg holster holding her wand. He watched her with hooded eyes, his hand even held her leg, touching bare skin, as she pulled out her wand.

Then their eyes met briefly, right before she touched her wand to his wound and she said one of the healing spells she had learned. She could only hope it would work. "There, that should heal it, and help the pain," she said. Moving off his lap, she placed her wand next to her comb, book, the scarf, and his long, leather jacket and reached for his shirt.

Sitting next to him, she held it out and waited.

He brushed her hand away.

"Why aren't you scared of me?" he asked. Before she could answer he reached for the back of her head with both hands, pulled her to him, and forced her back on his lap. His shirt still in her hands, it was crushed between his bare chest and hers. He kept her face in his hands, peered down into her eyes, and with a questioning look he begged, "Please, tell me why you aren't afraid of me, when everyone else always is, because you should be, my love, you really should be."

To be continued…

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_This chapter was insanely long, and therefore it didn't fit the pace of the other chapters, so I broke it into two. You'll get the other one soon, maybe Wednesday. I know I said I would only post every Sunday, but since it's already written, I might post it sooner. It has the good part in it...if you know what I mean...ha! Thanks everyone!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 - Forever Sublime **

* * *

…_This song of soul I struggle to outbear_

_Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,_

_And utter all myself into the air;_

_But if I did it – as the thunder-roll,_

_Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,_

_Before that dread apocalypse of the soul._

_Part two of The Soul's Expression _

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

Hermione moved off Scabior's lap after healing his wounded shoulder. "There, that should heal it, and help the pain." She placed her wand next to her comb, the scarf, and his long, leather jacket on the floor and reached for his shirt. Sitting next to him, she held it out and waited.

He brushed her hand away. He seemed agitated, almost angry.

"Why aren't you scared of me?" he asked. Before she could answer, he reached for the back of her head with both hands, pulled her to him, and forced her back to his lap. His shirt still in her hands, it was crushed between his bare chest and hers. He kept her face in his hands, peered down into her eyes, and with a questioning look he begged, "Please, tell me why you aren't afraid of me, when everyone else always is, because you should be, my love, you really should be."

Hermione's heart beat hard against her ribcage. Her pulse leapt back and forth. Not from fear, but from shock, surprise. The air in the enclosed car changed rapidly in the spans of a few seconds. Suddenly, the air was filled with an electrical current that she felt pass through him to her. It was as if a tentacle, dark and unyielding, reached inside her, anchored onto her heart, and then attached itself to him.

She tried to keep her panicked breathing slow and unlabored when she announced, "I'm not afraid of you," yet even as the words fell from her lips, she wasn't certain of their truthfulness. She didn't want to be afraid of him. She didn't think she was afraid of him. Because fear wasn't the right word – perhaps it was trepidation? Anxiety? Nervousness?

When he held her like this, so close, so tight, she felt unsure of too many things to mention, and she didn't like that. Was that fear? No, she wasn't afraid of him. Still, she shivered in his arms.

With a lump in her throat, his arms tight bands around her body, his obvious desire for her against her bum, and his eyes so dark, so intense, boring holes into hers, she asked, "Are you afraid of me?"

With that, his anger seemed to ebb away. He actually smiled, loosened his hold, and then admitted, "Yes, my girl, you scare me like no other has."

His confession caused her to smile, but a bit. Things shifted with his declaration. The change was hard to pinpoint, but it was there, nonetheless. He gently pushed her off his lap, stood, and went to stare out the small gap that was left in the doorway of the train car. The sound of the rain was now so muffled that Hermione wasn't even aware it was still raining until she stood and walked to join him by the opening.

Standing behind him, she looked at the hard muscles of his back. His back was well defined – his torso long and lean. His long black hair, with one bright red streak, was tide back with a piece of brown leather, and it hung down the middle of this back. His shoulders sagged when he took a deep breath. Upon that breath he said, "I'm so scared of you that I feel lost sometimes. I don't know what I'm doing. I feel undone. I only wish you were equally afraid of me. It would make everything so much easier."

Reaching out, she placed a hand on his bare forearm. He flinched, but she held tight. "What do you mean by those statements? How are you afraid of me, and why do you want me to be afraid of you?"

Turning quickly, with an intensity that DID scare her, he shouted, "BECAUSE SWEETNESS! That's the way its supposed to be! You make me feel reckless! You make me do insane things! You make me think of you before I think of myself! Everyday I round up runaways, mostly Mudbloods, and I turn them over to the Ministry! That's what I meant to do with you that day in the Muggle store! I was there to snatch you, lovely!"

His stark honesty shocked her. She blinked rapidly several times at that statement, trying hard to comprehend it, and its meaning. "You were there to capture me?"

Turning from her, he said, "I'd been following you before that actually. Long before you sent your parents away." He turned back and wrenched his shirt from her hands, throwing it on the floor. "Why didn't you go with them? You'd be safe right now!"

"When did you first see me?" she asked, still shocked.

He threw his hands in the air and with anger said, "Aren't you listening? That doesn't matter! I was given orders to snatch you in particular, long before I spoke with you at that fucking department store! You made it all quite easy, always running around by yourself. Where was the fun in that? I couldn't just take you that easily, so that's why I let you go at first."

Hermione felt her own brand of anger at his words. "And now? Why don't you turn me in now? Here I am! There's no protection spells around me! I don't even have my wand! It's over there on the floor, so take me! Go on, take me! I'm yours!"

He began to circle her, the way a ringmaster circles a lion at a circus. She turned around as he did. "Who knows, beautiful, perhaps I shall. I could have taken you at anytime; I still can! I just haven't done it yet."

"Yet?" she spat, pushing him with both hands. He stumbled slightly, hitting the far wall of the boxcar.

Grabbing her left wrist with his right hand, he pulled her toward him and repeated, "Yes, yet."

Her head snapped back, standing right in front of him. Arms of steel went around her waist. He seemed calmer than before, and while he seemed calmer after their brief argument, she had to remind herself to breathe in and out, slowly and surely as he added, "But the time has finally come. I am going to take you, because you are mine!"

She had suspected something like this would happen all along. He was playing her for a fool. She was starting to trust the man, and all he wanted was 'a big snatch'. Her heart thumped louder and harder, and her stomach clenched. Now at last, she felt fear. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick, her throat felt closed and restricted. Harry and Ron weren't too far away, but if she screamed she might cause them to run from the tent, away from the protection wards. It would be better if she were taken alone.

Suddenly chilled, she shivered, and in her shock she wasn't aware that he was lowering them both to the floor. Trying hard not to give in to her fear, she said, "What will they do to me at the Ministry? Will I have a trial? Will they send me to Azkaban right away? Can you at least tell me?"

"Sh, sh, quiet now," he hushed in her ear, stroking her hair away from her face with one warm hand. "No one's going to Azkaban. I'm not taking you to the Ministry."

"But you said…"

"I said I hadn't taken you yet, but that I'm going to do it now," he clarified. His voice sounded calm and cool. She felt less afraid. "I would hope if I were to take you prisoner, you'd fight me a bit, sweet girl. Did you really think that's what I meant?" His face hovered directly over hers.

Her hands were clinched in fists, trapped between his chest and hers. No, that's not what she thought. She was smart. She knew instantly what he meant, but the thought of doing THAT with this man scared her more than the thought of being SNATCHED by this man.

Her burgeoning fear mingled with her crisp nerves, and her daring almost began to wane, but finally she mustered the courage to say to him, "I'm not afraid." She didn't know what else to say.

Unclenching one fist with his hand, he placed a kiss in the middle of her palm, then placed her hand on her chest. "No, you're not afraid. You're my little Gryffindor. So brave, so brave." He began to rain little kisses all across her hairline, her forehead, her face.

Hermione tried to concentrate on his kisses, but instead, she found her mind wandering. His leg was heavy between both of hers, his one hand flat on her stomach, under her shirts, his other hand in her hair, pulling it out of its plait - these were the things that took over her thoughts.

Her hands went to his chest. It was warm and solid. It occurred to her that no matter what happened here today, things in her life, in her world, in her universe, would be greatly altered, no matter what.

Then there was the kiss. His kiss was simply sublime. It was hard, seeking, and it instantly called out to her, making her beg for more. She'd never kissed anyone like this kiss, like the way she kissed this man. Her hands slid across his chest, up to his bare back, to his heavy hair. He moved so that he was cradled in the comfort of her hips, and she liked the heavy feeling of HIM against HER.

Her breasts felt heavy and wanting. He pulled her sweater and shirt up and soon they were over her head. She was so close to him, he was on top of her, that she barely notice when he removed her bra, too. She was only aware of that part of him, resting against that part of her, growing harder. That alone was enough to send her spiraling downward.

He was still kissing her, claiming her with his mouth, his hands on her bare breasts, pulling, cupping, crushing, when suddenly, his mouth left hers to move down to one of her breasts.

She nearly arched completely off the floor when he first licked her nipple. She screamed out, he smiled, and did it again. He pulled one nipple in his mouth, sucked hard, twirling the tip, as his hands went to unbutton and unzip her jeans.

Before she knew what was happening, he had pulled her lower clothing completely off and had thrown them over with her other clothing. She felt so wanton, yet so alive, lying naked on the cold, hard metal floor of an empty, abandoned railway car, in the middle of nowhere.

She felt dizzy from everything that was happening. Questions and thoughts filled her head, even as he undressed. She wanted to look, but didn't know if he would want her to. His hand slid down to her bottom, and he turned them both slightly so they were lying face to face. Still kissing, and touching, caressing, she couldn't help but wonder if she should tell him that she was a virgin.

Surely he assumed she was, right?

This was all so forbidden, but Hermione had yet another thought, as she let this strange enigma make love to her. That was that she might die, any day, at any time, and she didn't want to die without knowing THIS. Without knowing HIM. The thought of it made her beyond sad, but it also spurred her onward.

His muscular legs skimmed her soft, smoother ones, and finally she felt him at the one place she most wanted him. The thought that they were this close to making love had her dizzy, yet feeling extremely vulnerable.

His weight settled more on her, heavy, hot, demanding. Without words, without explanation, he drove into her, easy at first. She didn't know if she could endure it. She felt embarrassed, aroused, and yes, afraid. He rocked against her again, his mouth on hers, kissing her hard and severe, and she clung to his shoulders.

When he pushed the rest of the way in, past the point of all reason, she couldn't help herself, she cried out. Breath caught in her throat, she cried out in pain, not passion. Pain.

Even if he could have stopped, she knew he wouldn't, but he did look at her, his brows knitted together, a look of confusion on his face. "Why? You're a virgin." He strained to remain still on top of her.

"Yes, I am, or was," she said, through labored breaths, still clutching his arms hard, her face turning toward the wall, so not to look at him.

He forced her eyes to him. "Why? Why me! Damn you forever! I never imagine! You can't keep doing things like this to me!"

"What have I done to you?" she asked, her face still contorted in pain, his weight heavy on her, inside her.

He turned away from her now. She noticed how he clinched his jaw tightly together. He turned back toward her and asked, "What do you think this is, right now, between us?"

"What?" Now she was confused, and frankly, no longer aroused. She wanted it to be over and done.

He began to move inside her again, stroking back and forth, his upper body off hers, weight of it on his hands and arms. He asked again, "What do you call THIS, my girl? This thing we're doing?"

"Making love? Is that what you mean?"

He hissed, then cursed. "Fuck. No, we aren't making love. It's sex. We're shagging. Not making love."

Though his words were harsh, and perhaps cruel, his actions weren't. Hermione expected him to hurry, to show his anger that way, but instead, he caressed her, delicately, softly, slowly. He kissed her all over, he played with her breasts, scorched her with his kissed all across her body.

Finally, when she was clutching his shoulders tighter than ever, and she began to shudder beneath him, he quickened his ministrations, moving in a rhythm that was hard, but sweet. His breathing was as ragged as hers was, and they both cried out, she arched upwards, he fell down upon her, and in the end, they lay side by side, neither moving, touching nor speaking.

She wanted to cry.

He reached out and ran one long finger down from the top of her forehead, to the tip of her nose, to her lips, chin, neck, down her chest bone, her stomach, then around to her hipbone. "It's still not making love, beautiful, because we don't love each other, alright? Don't make it something its not. Don't fall in love with me. There's nothing about me worth loving."

And she turned to look at him and said, "It's alright, I understand." But she didn't, not really. She sat up first, grabbed her clothing, and dressed. When she was done, he had pulled on his jeans, but nothing else.

With her book in hand, and the scarf around her neck, she opened up the sliding door of the train. The rain had stopped and sun was trying to shine through the canopy of trees. She looked back at him once and said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to romanticize anything. I know you don't love me."

She didn't think it mattered if she loved him or not, anyway. She jumped to the ground and ran away. She looked back once. He was standing in the door, watching her as she did.


	8. Chapter 8

**All characters belong to JKR**

_***chapter note - This is the first chapter where I've included Scabior's thoughts and emotions. They are in bold. Thank you.**_

* * *

**Chapter 8 – Fools Suffer as no Other Men**

* * *

_On the door you will not enter,  
I have gazed too long – adieu!  
Hope withdraws her peradventure-  
Death is near me – and not you.  
Come, O lover,  
Close and cover  
These poor eyes, you called, I ween,  
"Sweetest eyes, were ever seen."_

_From – Catarina to Camoens_  
_(Dying in his absence abroad, referring to the poem_  
_in which he recorded the sweetness of her eyes)_  
_by Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

"I don't think I can stomach eating mushrooms again," Ron complained from his cot in the other room on the far side of the tent.

Hermione added some more seasoning and spices, stirred the mushrooms, and over her shoulder she said, "It's alright, Ron. They'll be better this time. Harry found some potatoes, too."

"Great," Ron said without emotion. "Potatoes and mushrooms. I wonder what Mum's cooking tonight."

Hermione sighed – openly, loudly, and long. She wanted Ron to hear her. She wanted him to know that she was tired of his complaining. She knew he was still recovering from his arm wound, but that didn't mean he had the right to say disparaging things about everyone and everything. He wasn't even the one wearing the locket right now. Harry was wearing it, so his bad mood couldn't be overlooked because of that.

Ron continued, "Mum's shepherd pie is the best. You've had it before, Hermione. Isn't it the best?"

"It's very good, Ron," she agreed.

"And her kippers! I love kippers in the morning! I know you don't, Hermione, but I do, and Mum must do something special with them, because hers are the best."

"She's a variable saint," Hermione said under her breath.

"I'd even eat one of George or Fred's concoctions over whatever it you're making. It seems rancid. What is that horrible smell? Are you certain you just put mushroom and potatoes in the pot, or did you put a rat in there as well?" Ron grumbled without amusement.

Hermione had, had enough. She took the handle of the pot, removed it from the camp stove, and swung it as hard as she could. It landed with flare right beside Ron's bed, some of the muck splashing upon his trouser legs and trainers.

"Hey!" he shouted, moving his legs, brushing at them with his hands.

"Well, stop complaining so much!" she shouted in return. "I'm doing the best I can, Ronald Weasley! I don't see you helping with the food. All you do is eat it!"

He stood and yelped, "I can hardly even do that, as it's almost inedible!"

Harry showed himself finally, standing partly in the doorway and partly out, but he didn't ask what was wrong. He could tell what was wrong by the mess on the floor and the words flying from his friends' mouths.

"Inedible! If it's so inedible, then why did you eat two platefuls last night, when I didn't even get one?" Hermione asked in return.

"You were gone!" Ron bellowed. "You went off on your own, 'for alone time', and we had no clue as to how long you'd be gone, so yeah, I ate your share, so sorry, Hermione! Speaking of that, where did you go? You've been going off on your own a lot lately!"

"That doesn't matter! I merely wanted some time to myself!" Hermione pouted with her hands in fists at her side, tears in her eyes. "You wouldn't understand."

Harry walked inside the tent and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. She shrugged if off, and said, "You both clean up this mess and fix something to eat yourselves. I'm taking the next watch."

She held out her hand to Harry. "Give me the locket."

"No. I can keep it," he said evenly.

"The locket, Harry!" she demanded.

"You're in a bad enough mood as it is," he complained.

"Fine. Keep the damn thing." Hermione went to her bunk, grabbed her heavy sweater, her Merino wool scarf, her book and her wand and she stormed out of the tent.

Sitting next to the closed flap outside, she hunkered down, and opened the book, though she didn't read. Instead, she thought of Scabior again. It was all she ever did anymore.

They made love twelve days ago and she hadn't seen him since. Everyday since then, she either had made an excuse to go off on her own, or had taken the night guard, with the expectation that she would see him again, but it was a false hope. Now she felt like some lovesick fool and it made her angry. Angry with him, angry with herself, angry at the world.

Perhaps the magic, or the charm on the scarf, was waning. Perhaps he never wanted to see her again. Perhaps he regretted what happened between them. Perhaps he thought she was nothing but an awkward teenage girl, an infatuated child, and he had better things to do than spend time with her.

Except, he said if she needed him he would come. She needed him. That proved he was a liar. He wasn't worthy of her time and consideration!

Her fight with Ron made her want to cry, also. He could tell there was something different about her, that there was a shift in their relationship. He pressed her for an explanation earlier today, but she could hardly tell him the truth, so instead she merely told him that she didn't think they should pursue anything beyond friendship at this time.

He didn't like that answer.

She didn't blame him.

Still, she did blame him for his boorish behavior regarding the food just now. Didn't he think that she was hungry for something besides mushrooms, berries, and the like? Didn't he think that she missed her mother's cooking, too? Didn't he think…well, didn't he think?

Hermione hadn't realized that she had started to cry until tears were running down her face. She refused to believe her tears were for Scabior. They weren't. They weren't for her loss of innocence either. She was prepared for that. She was on Muggle birth control (since she knew she would be on the run, and she didn't want to be bothered with her menstrual cycle) so there was little chance of pregnancy, but more than that, she was prepared to get on with that part of her life. He didn't realize that it could have been with anyone, and it just happened to have been with him, therefore, there was no reason for the man to stay away from her.

She wasn't going to start quoting love sonnets to him. She wasn't going to act all doe-eyed and obsessed around him. He could still show his face now and again. Really, there was no reason for him to stay away.

No reason at all.

No bloody reason.

Yet, she was still crying.

**The bloody chit was crying. Why did she have to cry? The last few times he encountered her in the woods she had been crying, and still he didn't go to her, even though he promised her he would. He said if she needed him, he would come. Of course, he was a liar of a particular caliber, though she didn't know that little unscrupulous trait about him.**

**A grim smile crossed his face as he recalled their time together in the train car. It undoubtedly meant more to her than it did to him. Poor girl. Although, it did mean something to him, yet he wouldn't admit that to anyone, not even himself. The whole thing came down to one little fact – he wasn't worthy of her.**

**Tilting his head in the darkness, he leaned against a tree and watched her as she scanned the woods. He knew she couldn't see him, not if he didn't want her to see him, and he didn't. He was outside her wards, but he could see her because of the connection with the scarf.**

**She looked so sad and alone, yet graceful and reposed, sitting by herself next to a small fire, a book by her leg, her wand in her hand. Scabior was aware of a bitter sensation creeping into his chest like poisonous venom, attacking his blood stream first, and then making its way into his heart. He tried to identify the feeling, yet he'd never felt it before, so he couldn't name it if he tried. The precise nature of the feeling had him on edge, angry and confused.**

**He refused to think it might be love. He had never felt love in his whole thirty years on this earth. No one had ever loved him, and he had never loved another soul, but yet…but yet…seeing the beautiful, composed, woman sitting alone made him catch his breath. He froze at the sight of her.**

**He walked closer to her wards, and then froze. What was he doing? This was utter madness. What would other people think if they knew he was this close to Harry Potter, yet all he could do was make 'cow eyes' at his Mudblood best friend?**

**Utter madness it was. Not love. It was sickness, disease, perhaps a curse or a spell. She had him enchanted, no…enthralled, captivated. To hell with it all. He walked closer still. The glow of the campfire cast a shimmering gold tone to her face, but it also revealed tears in her eyes. There were dark shadows under her eyes as well, and lines between her brows, as if she had been under even more stress than normal.**

**He almost revealed himself, when the flap of the tent opened and the ginger placed his head out.**

**"Harry made you a plate of food, Hermione," the ginger boy said.**

**"I don't want any, Ron," she answered.**

**"Do you want me to bring you out a plate?" he asked.**

**She replied, "No. I want you to leave me alone." Turning her face back toward the fire, back toward Scabior's line of vision, silent tears began to fall again.**

**The ginger said, "I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier. I know I've been cross with you a lot lately. You've been trying your best, and I need to appreciate it more." The fact that the boy admitted he had been mean to her made Scabior's blood boil. He wanted to show the little fucker how mean someone could really be.**

**She sniffed twice, wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, and with a little laugh said, "Harry made you apologize, didn't he?"**

**The boy frowned a bit, but admitted, "Well, yeah, but I would have apologized eventually. I mean, it's not your fault you're a terrible cook." There was a pregnant pause, then he added, "And if you don't feel the same things for me that I feel for you, then I guess its best that we know now. We'll still be best friends, right?"**

**She looked over her shoulder, smiled and said, "Best friends. I love you, Ron, but only as a best friend."**

**He nodded and said, "Well, if you change your mind, we'll leave your plate covered on the table. Wake me in three hours and I'll take over the watch. Harry and I are going to sleep now. 'Night, Hermione. I'm sorry I made you angry and made you cry."**

**"What's new, Ron?" she joked. He smiled and went back into the tent.**

**She pulled her knees up to her forehead and cried as quietly as she could, rocking back and forth.**

**Scabior had heard enough. He could stay away from her no longer.**

Suddenly, there was an outburst of movement to the left of her, which surprised and astonished her. She gave out a small, arrested cry; falling backwards onto her back, onto the ground, she saw Scabior hovering over her, on his knees, reaching out for her, grabbing for her, to keep her from falling over. Only then did she realize that he'd somehow broken through her wards.

It was one thing for him to know where she was from the scarf. It was another to pull her through the wards, as he had done that one day, but this time the man literally BROKE into her wards, with a strange sort of crash.

Even though it was he, her panic didn't immediately subside. Breathing hard, her arms flailed between them, her legs kicked out, but he was stronger. He forced her to the ground, crushing her, his hands going to her head, his fingers up in her hair, all the time his voice soft, murmuring a symphony of phrases such as... "it's alright darling, it's okay, my girl, you're not alone, I'm here, you're okay, don't be afraid, I'm here, I'm here…"

Her confusion subsided, and his hold slackened, though he tucked her head under his chin, as he swept them from their position on the ground into a sitting position in a single, graceful movement. Still rocking her gently, holding her to his chest, upon his lap, he finally said a complete sentence. "It's just me, beautiful. I have you now. No need to cry. By the way, how have you been?"

Her cheek was against the smooth leather of his coat. The feel and texture of it brought back so many memories that speech was temporarily halted. Her brain told her to move away from him, but her heart won out, stirred by the memory of his hold, his smell, his voice, his body. She relaxed onto him instead.

His hands were stroking her hair and back, gently, and she didn't even know she was trembling in his arms until he told her she didn't need to tremble any longer. That was when she remembered that she was angry with him, just as angry as she had been at Ron earlier. She was angry and she had felt betrayed. Pushing away, she scrambled off his lap to sit beside him and said, "How have I been? Well, goodness, I'm fine now! But you just scared me. I didn't know you could break through my wards."

"I didn't know I could either," he said with a crooked grin, sitting beside her. "I admit it gave me a bit of a jolt as well."

He was sitting too close. She realized her hand was on his thigh. It was hard and muscled under her hand. She pushed away from him and moved to the other side of the fire. Heart beating in her ear, she asked, "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in almost two weeks."

"I've been around. I've seen you."

"What a stupid answer," she returned. "May I ask you another question?"

"Are you going to tell me my answer is stupid if you do?" he asked with a strange smile.

"Perhaps." She bit her bottom lip. Strangely, she suddenly felt safe and protected with this man near her. Earlier, she felt alone and afraid, sitting out here by the fire, and now she felt safe and protected. She hated to think that she felt that way merely because of the presence of a man. She just wasn't one of THOSE types of women – one of those women who needed a man to be complete, to feel safe, and to be whole.

Nevertheless, she felt better with him near.

Damn him.

"Are you going to ask your question?" he prodded.

"I'm thinking," she returned. "Are you ever afraid?" It wasn't what she was going to ask, but it was the only question that was on her mind now, because this man seemed fearless in the face of a never-ending fear. He seemed conceited, almost condemnatory, egotistical, and arrogant.

And he was still her enemy, no matter what. She must always remember that. So she repeated the question, because if she could learn his secrets, perhaps she could use them to help herself. "Answer me. Are you? Are you ever afraid, of anything?"

**He glared at her for the longest time. In his head, he answered, but not aloud. In his head, he answered, 'I'm afraid of you, my girl. I'm afraid of you.' His eyes continued to bore into hers with an intensity that bordered on terrorism. He wanted to scare her. Warn her away.  
**  
And it worked. She pulled out her wand, struggled to back up on the leaf-strewn ground, and as she started to stand, he bounded forward, landing on top of her.

"No, get off me," she commanded, withering underneath him. She stiffened, then closed her eyes and said, "Please, please, leave me alone."

His full weight upon her, sinking his head into the crook of her neck, he licked her ear, then said softly into it, "No, you want your answer, here it is. I'm not afraid of anything. Nothing scares me darling girl, and you want to know why? Because nothing matters to me. Nothing's important to me. The only thing I care about is myself. You're scared all the time because you care about too many things, including me. Well, I have a secret for you, I'm not worthy of your worry and fear. Don't spend one moment thinking about me, concerned about me, because I don't spend one moment thinking about you, or worrying about you!"

She turned her head, until they were nose to nose and said, "I can't help it. I always worry about things I care about, and I'll always be scared and concerned about the people I love. That's who I am, and you're now part of me, whether you like it or not."

**He didn't expect that answer from her. And though he didn't expect it, he knew she was telling the truth. He wished he could be as truthful to her. Instead, he would try one last time to warn her away. With his fingers still in her hair, pulling hard, one hand on her face, he put his thumb near her lip. Leaning down, he placed his mouth over hers, but instead of giving her a sweet, gentle kiss (as he wanted to), he gave her a hard, brutal kiss, causing pain, biting, bruising, tasting blood.**

**When he pulled back, she looked shocked and sad. He moved his thumb against her bloody, bottom lip. His head dropped once more to her neck and he said again, "Do you still think you love me, even though I don't give a shite about you? Do you think you'll still worry about me after this, even though I'm not worthy of your worry or fear?"**

**"Let me go," she hissed instead of answering.**

**He froze on top of her. He wanted to tell her so much. He wasn't worthy of her love, or her worry, or fear, or concern. It was better that she hate him, than love him, in the long run.**

**"Please, get off me," she spat, pushing at his shoulders with her hands.**

**His head lifted and he looked into her dazed, confused eyes. He moved off her. She sat up, and threw her arms around her chest. He sat beside her with a cool exterior, though it was a front. All that mattered was that it worked. She hated him. Well, good.**

Hermione felt humiliated, hurt. She looked up at Scabior, expecting to see a cocky expression on his face, but instead, she saw something else. She saw the truth, and the truth was that it was all a lie. So she took a chance and said, "Even if you hate me, even if what happened on the train meant nothing to you, _even if I mean nothing to you_, it all meant something to me, and you can't change that. You can hate me, you can pity me, you can think me a fool, but you can't and won't change the way I feel about you. I'll care about you until my dying day."

She turned to look back into the fire, and said, "I think you should go now. I apparently need to enforce my wards."

"Right." He stood. Almost awkwardly, he walked to the edge of the wards. He looked back once and asked, "Do you want to give me back the scarf?"

Looking up at him she returned, "Why would I want to do that? It's my scarf. I bought it."

He smiled, and then a small laugh left his lips. "You're something else, my girl. Just forget this little interlude happened. Call it temporary insanity." He turned to leave, but turned back almost immediately and added, "And next time you need me, I promise I'll be there, I will." He continued to stare down at her, she up at him.

Then she nodded. He nodded back. "I'm still not worthy, you know."

"Whatever," she replied.

"But I've come to realize that you however, are beyond any worth and have my utmost love and devotion, my dear beautiful, lovely girl, until my last breath," he said with a slight grin and a twinkle in his eye. With a bow he was gone, just like that.

And Hermione would never know if he really meant it or not.


	9. Chapter 9

**All characters belong to JKR**

* * *

**Chapter 9 – A Walk in the Woods with Words of Misunderstanding**

* * *

_For thou we never spoke_

_Of the gray water and the shaded rock,_

_Dark wave and stone unconsciously were fused_

_Into the plaintive speaking that we used_

_Of absent friends and memories unforsook;_

_And, had we seen each other's face, we had_

_Seen haply, each was sad._

_From 'A __Seaside__ Walk'_

_By __Elizabeth__Barrett__Browning_

* * *

"I tell you, it's getting bad, sweetheart," Scabior elaborated, pulling on the end of Hermione's scarf, as they walked among the dead leaves, broken limbs, branches and brambles of the forest. "My reputation's at stake. I need to make an important snatch and soon."

She had so much she wanted to ask him, but they had decided that day in the boxcar, before they made love (the only time) that they would never ask each other questions concerning his 'snatching' or her 'mission'. Yet, here he was talking about just that very thing.

When he found her today, she was all alone in the forest, outside of their protection wards, scouring for food. They had just moved to a new location, and a few days before they were close to a village, so they were able to hide under the invisibility cloak and 'shop' for food at a local market.

That food lasted exactly four days, hence the reason she was back out in the woods in search of food today.

She knew he would find her in the forest today, because she wore her scarf and she was thinking of him intently. That was how the magic of the scarf worked, and after only twenty minutes of foraging for food, he appeared.

He appeared while she was on her knees by a bush, reaching inside for berries. She heard him coming, anticipated it was he, so she remained kneeling and didn't even raise her head at the sound of his Apparition.

"Oh ho, my girl, and what pray tell are you doing down there? Are you worshipping on your knees because it's the Sabbath?" He walked up behind her and pulled on her hair.

"Is it?" she asked, her hand carefully inside the prickly bush, almost to the ripe, black berries. "I never know the days of the week anymore."

"Do you know how to hide when you hear someone approach?" he asked, a bit terser.

She looked up, at the same time that she looked up, she lost her concentration, and her hand was caught on a nettle in the bush. "Ouch! Look what you made me do!" She pulled her hand out from the bush and wrapped her bleeding finger around the end of her scarf.

"I didn't make you do that. You, my girl, are becoming sloppy. Out beyond your protection wards, alone all the time, not paying attention to things." He plopped down beside her, pulled her finger out from her mouth, (where it was at the moment) shook his head, said, "Disgusting, placing such a thing in your mouth, that's what that is," laughed, (she frowned) and then he pulled out his wand and healed it. However, he didn't relinquish it.

"My hand," she urged.

From his place on the ground beside her, he cradled her hand, palm side up, in both of his. Looking down at it he said, "It shouldn't be like this." His thumb moved to the middle of her palm and began to rub it in circles. He continued to examine her fingers, hand, palm, with his thumb and gaze. With a light touch, that caused a flutter in her stomach, he relinquished her hand with a glide of his fingers over hers, and then with his wand he turned toward the bush and retrieved the berries for her.

"Thank you," she said, begrudgingly. "I couldn't use my wand for the task because I was afraid my magic might be traced – there – that's proof that I'm being careful! And for your information, I knew it was you who was approaching earlier, so that's why I wasn't on guard. I'm not about to take chances. What has you in a snit?"

She placed the berries in her bag, along with some other things she had found, and took the hand he offered when he stood before she did. They started walking, and talking, and that was when he began to tell her how the Ministry was becoming 'difficult' regarding the failure on behalf of the Wizarding police, the Aurors, the Death Eaters, and the Snatchers, because they hadn't yet caught Harry, Ron or Hermione.

"And the thing that ruffles my feather the most," Scabior complained after a while, "is that my reputation is on the line. I don't have a lot, my darling girl, but I have my reputation as the best damn snatcher there is, and I can hardly show my face, and yet, I could have brought public enemy number one in at least a dozen times by now."

Hermione stopped walking.

He stopped as well, because he still had the end of her scarf in his hand.

"Are you saying what I think you're saying? Is this little interlude over between us, because you have to start doing your job now?" she asked with ire.

He shrugged, nonchalantly, started walking again, and commented, "What's between us, love? I've yet to define it. Have you? Besides, I'm not sure I'd have to bring in Potter, you know, to make them happy, and to restore my reputation. It could be one of the other of you."

Hermione stopped walking once more. "You're going to take me in, aren't you?"

"Where's the trust?" he asked the air between them, as he didn't direct the question to her. "Why would you ask that? That insults us both, you know. I think that hurts my feelings, it does."

"Are you sure you have feelings?" she said sarcastically. She started walking away from him fast, pulling the end of her scarf out of his hand.

He jogged to keep up with her. "Well, now who's in a snit? Frankly, I can't see that all three of you are needed on your little camping trip anyway. Are you merely on the run, hiding out from the Ministry, or are you doing something specific?"

Hermione came to a complete and utter halt. He stopped right behind her. She turned quickly to face him. "Why would you ask that? I thought we weren't to ask each other such things!"

"Times change. Have you considered that I might not have a choice any longer, lovely? The way I see it, I can't fathom that you're merely hiding out, because you're too smart for that. If that were the case, you'd have taken your boys far, far away. You're doing something special, something to stop the Dark Lord."

Hermione glared at him and then said, "You know nothing about it."

"Ah, I think I do. I think old Scabior hit the nail on the old proverbial head." He placed his hand on the middle of her chest and backed her up against another tree, wrapping his hand around the scarf to keep her in place. "But you can keep your secrets, beautiful. That's part of your appeal. And I know you're too intricate, too important to whatever it is you're doing, and of course, so is the boy who lived. But…well…what would you say if I were to capture at least the ginger boy? He can't be too vital to your little organization, can he?"

Hermione gasped. She tried to knock his hand off her chest, but he held firm. Grasping her hand around his wrist, she cautioned, "I warned you once! You leaveRonandHarryalone. I don't care what I feel for you; I'll pick them over you any time! They come first!"

With a sneer he seethed, "Oh really. Say it isn't so. That warms the cockles of my soul, it does. Nice to know where I fit in the scheme of things, or at least in your own little world. I say, ginger goes. It's not as if anything bad will happen to him. He's a pureblood. They might give him a slap on the wrist and then they'll send him off to school like a good little boy. He'd probably thank me for taking him away from all of this."

She began to cry. It was really just too much! "Please, no, please, not Ron. You can take me. I'll give myself up. It would look better to take me in, wouldn't it, since your primary job is rounding up those of lower blood status? Please, not Ron."

He seemed angry by her tears. He pressed his body against hers, his nose against her cheek, his warm breath against her face, and he said, "You still have feelings for him after all, don't you. He makes you cry, but that doesn't matter, you'd still give your life for him. I wonder. Do you care enough for me that you'd give your life for me?"

She shook her head, not understanding his jealousy, his anger, his hurt. "I am giving myself for you. You need to take someone in, you said so yourself."

He dropped the end of her scarf as if it scalded him. "Stop it! Don't act the martyr and then expect me to believe it's for my benefit, love. It's for him. You love him, don't you?" He grasped both her hands and held them high above her head. She dropped her book and beaded bag.

"Of course I love him. I never stopped loving him. He's my best friend, just asHarryis," she argued.

He didn't appear to hear that answer. "You're nothing but a Mudblood, even to him, I bet. Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise."

"Why are you being so vindictive?Rondoesn't think of me that way! He respects me! He's never called me that ugly, dirty name. He's defended me against people who's called me that name!" She tried to get out of his hands, but his hands held her wrists like manacles.

"And I've done nothing for you, is that it?" he countered, pulling her hands behind her back.

"What does that have to do with anything? Why are we arguing about this? Please, just don't hurtRonorHarry!" Her head fell against his chest in defeat. She continued to cry. He loosened his hold, finally bringing her hands to her sides. She stopped crying with a sniffle and a hiccup.

He slowly let go of her hands, and moved his arms around her body, softly she relaxed against him. Finally, in a softer voice, he said, "Did you just wipe a boogie on my leather jacket? Because I have to tell you, I think my leather jacket is way cool, and if you put a boogie on it, I may have to take you in just for that."

She brought her head up, a look of confusion on her face, and she replied with a small laugh, "You're certifiable."

"I'm something, alright." Cupping her face, he used the pads of both thumbs to wipe away the tears tracks from where they fell from her eyes. "I'm barking mad, because I **_should_** take you away. I should take you away from this. I should take you away, hide you somewhere, where you'll be safe, and have plenty to eat, a soft bed to sleep in, you won't have to read the same bloody book all the time, and you and I could…" but he stopped.

"And you and I could, what?" she urged, grasping the lapels of his jacket hard in her hands.

"Nothing, my girl. It's just a bloody dream, and I'm a sodding fool, because you'd never let me take you away from this, and I'll never take you into custody, so we're at an impasse." He leaned down, picked up her things and handed them to her.

"And you won't takeRonandHarryeither, right?" she asked, hopeful.

He brushed his hand from the crown of her head, down to her shoulder. Grasping her hand, he said, "Do me one favour. Just make sure you never lose the scarf. I couldn't stand it if I lost contact with you, all right? I need to go, beautiful. I have to earn my keep. People to see, places to go, little runaways Mudbloods to snatch." Placing his hands back on her face, he kiss her forehead and then trotted off toward the woods.

Hermione finishing finding food, which included wild onions and mushrooms.

Later that evening, cooking the little bit of food she had found, she heardHarryandRonarguing from the other room. The fact that they were exchanging harsh words back and forth wasn't a novelty any longer, especially when one of them was wearing the locket, asRonhad been doing all day.

But this sounded like more than a normal fight. Hermione turned the fire off the camp stove and went into the other room, just asRonhad pushedHarry. Then he shouted, "You don't even know what you're doing! You're leading us around, and it's the same thing day after day, and we're no closer to finding another Horcrux then we were the first day, and we're no closer to destroying the one we have than we were the first day, either!"

"Well what do you want me to do about it,Ron?"Harryshouted back.

"It just seems odd to me that Dumbledore sent you on this quest, and didn't tell you what you were looking for, or where to find them!"

"Look, you know everything I know! And you didn't have to come with me, you know! I didn't ask you to come! You offered!"

"And now I'm offering to leave!"Ronshouted in return.

"No,Ron!" Hermione begged. "Please, it's the locket that's making you say these things! Take it off, please, take it off."

"I'll take it off," he said, pulling it over his head and throwing it at Harry. "Are you coming with me, Hermione?"

"I, I can't,Ron. I can't, we can't, we can't leave,Harry," she cried.

"It's always aboutHarry!"Ronbellowed. "Fine, stay withHarry! I should have known you'd pick him over me! You've been pulling farther and farther away from me for months!" He grabbed his rucksack and started toward the flap of the tent.

"If you go, don't come back!"Harrycharged.

"Who wants to come back?"Ronyelled. He ran out into the night. Hermione followed, but he was faster, and was beyond the wards before she even left the tent. Suddenly, she thought about Scabior, and how he had wanted to takeRoninto custody. What if Scabior and the other snatchers were out there right now, beyond their wards, watching the woods, and they had already takenRonaway?

Hermione began to shoutRon's name, although she new it was futile. She knew he was already gone. She sat outside the tent, and cried and cried and cried. She felt like such a failure. Perhaps if she had never met Scabior, she andRonwould still have feelings for each other, and he would still be with them.

Or maybe Scabior had even used some sort of magic to driveRonaway, because of his jealousy. She'd never know.

After a few hours,Harryforced her back inside. He tucked her into bed, placed an extra blanket around her, and took up watch outside. She continued to cry.

That morning,Harrywas unusually quiet. Finally, he said, "I know we'd planned to leave here today, but if you want to stay for a few days, in case he comes back, we can."

"He won't come back." She didn't know if she meantRonor Scabior, but she was sure that neither of them would be 't be back because Scabior probably had him. And Scabior wouldn't be back, because she was going to make sure she wasn't here for him to find. No matter where she was, he wouldn't find her. "Let's pack up and leave," she said through her tears.

They packed the tent and as they were lifting the protection wards, Hermione did one last thing. She removed the Merino wool, tartan scarf from around her neck and tied it to a tree.

"Are you leaving that forRon?"Harryasked.

In a way, she was, so she nodded through her her hand and Disapparated them away.

Two hours later, Scabior came back to the woods. He found the scarf tied to a tree, but there was no Hermione Granger anywhere near it.

* * *

_*How's that for a twist on why she left the scarf behind? On another note, without reveal too much to those who don't know, I just found out what happens to Scabior on Deathly Hallows Part II and I don't know whether to incorporate that into this story or not. I just don't know..._


	10. Chapter 10

**all characters belong to JKR**

* * *

**Chapter 10 – More's the Pity**

* * *

_Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart,_

_Pass; there's a world full of men:_

_And women as fair as thou art_

_Must do such things now and then._

_Thou only hast stepped unaware;_

_Malice, not one can impute;_

_And why should a heart have been there,_

_In the way of a fair woman's foot?_

_It was not a stone that could trip,_

_Nor was it a thorn that could rend;_

_Put up thy proud underlip!_

'_Twas merely the heart of a friend._

_Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part,_

"_Of all I have known or can know,_

_I wish I had only that heart_

_I trod upon ages ago!"_

_A False Step_

_By Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

"Are you sure you'll be okay by yourself?" Harry asked again.

Hermione merely tipped her head slightly, an infinitesimal nod showing her agreement. She was weary, and slightly ill, and frankly, tired of his questions. She was also trying to figure out a symbol in the front of her book, and it was giving her a headache.

"I'll try not to be gone long," he promised. This statement was also uttered for at least the tenth time. "I'll take the invisibility cloak with me, and I'll be careful, but I really want to follow this lead."

"Go, Harry," she insisted, holding the book in her hand again. "I'll read the book some more. There has to be a clue somewhere in the book." She didn't elaborate. He didn't need to know about the symbol yet. He had enough 'unknown' things on his plate – no need to place one more upon the heap. Sitting up on the side of her cot, she closed the book on her lap, instead of leaving it opened, so she could read it. Harry sat down beside her.

"Do you want me to stay with you? I will." Quietly, he waited for her answer, and when none came, he added, "I know you miss him still. I hear you crying at night."

If only he knew. She did cry at night, but not only for Ron. It had been ten days, and she had not seen Ron, or Scabior, since then, but she rather thought that was the point in leaving behind the scarf. Still, she missed both of them. She missed Ron as she would miss her left hand if it were severed - dependable, needed, slightly less effective than her right hand (Harry), but still a rather useful appendage.

She missed Scabior, the first man she ever loved, as she would miss her heart if someone had scooped it out of her chest, and left it empty and open, barren, leaving her alone to die. Even if it were a warped, misguided, hedonistic love, she still recognized that it was love, all the same.

"Go, Harry," she repeated for the second time. "I'll be fine, just go, please, just go." In her mind she repeated the command: _Go, just go._

She fell asleep shortly after Harry left, and when she awoke, she was disoriented as to time, place and even feeling. She began to move around the tent, book in hand, but she felt caged, bound, even uneasy, and she didn't know why. She promised Harry that she wouldn't go beyond their protection wards, and she wouldn't, but she desperately needed to go outside.

It was colder today. It could be because they were farther north, or because it was nearer to December. Walking back and forth in front of the tent, Hermione said aloud, "Oh, Ron, why did you have to leave like you did? It was selfish of you. Now Harry's gone all by himself. He should never be by himself, yet someone has to stay with the tent and the locket at all times."

Holding her arms around herself to stave off the cold, and the feeling of dread, she began to cry, and then she began to curse the fact that she was reduced to tears again. Tears served no purpose, but they came all the same.

"Crying for your one true love?" came a familiar voice from out of nowhere.

Hermione quieted her tears, pulled out her wand, and looked all around. She saw not a soul. She said a spell, and saw that her wards were still in place. No one should be able to see or hear her, yet that was Scabior's voice, and he knew she was crying, so he was close by, and he could _see and hear_ her.

"Where are you?" she asked, the words rushing out like water from a damn.

"Maybe I don't want you to see me, have you thought of that? Why do you care? You only care for Weasley. Still crying buckets o'tears for the bugger, and he's been gone for a week and a half. Where are Scabior's tears? Didn't old Scabior mean a bloody thing to you, beautiful?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes, turned around in a circle, and said, "I refuse to talk to thin air. I also refuse to talk to a man who refers to himself by his name. It's creepy. And perhaps, you dimwitted, thickheaded, piece of driftwood, some of my tears have been for you, have you thought of that? Probably not, because you've not given me a second thought, so why would you think I'd have give you one?"

She started to storm toward the tent, her wand so tightly in her right hand she thought it would break in her grip, when she heard him say, "That was a bloody good performance, sweetness. You almost had me believing you. Storming off in a tiff was a good way to end it, too. But there's one problem. It wasn't my name you were mewing out here moments ago. It was the ginger boy's. It was, 'Oh Ron this,' and 'Oh Ron that'!"

Hermione stomped her foot, turned back around and said, "YOU LEFT ME!"

"NO, BEAUTIFUL!" he shouted in return. He walked from behind a tree, toward the very edge of her wards now. He had her scarf tied tightly around his neck. When he was at the very edge of her wards, almost as if he were right beside her, he shouted, "WEASLEY LEFT YOU! YOU LEFT ME! You fucking left the fucking scarf tied to a fucking tree, which in my book told me clearly to go FUCK OFF!"

"YOU TOOK RON!" she accused.

"Did you not hear my righteous indignation just a second ago? Your boyfriend left! I didn't take him, nor do I know where he is!"

"I don't believe you!" she charged.

"Well fuck you, too!" he barked.

"Can't you say anything besides fuck?" she returned.

He smiled and said, "What else is there to say in such a situation, but FUCK YOU?"

"SHUT UP!" she shouted.

"What an intelligent retort," he said calmly.

"As intelligent as all your 'f' words. What's wrong, can't think of any big words?" she spat. Without cause, another tear rolled down her cheek.

He sneered, "Oh do stop with the melodramatics, darling girl. I'm tending not to believe you any longer."

"Shut up!" she said again.

"You already said that one!" he taunted. "I thought you said I was the one with the limited vocabulary!"

"Come inside the wards, if you're so brave, and fight like a man," she returned.

"Why don't you come outside of them," he replied, in an easier tone. "It wasn't easy for me to find you in the first place, since you no longer had the scarf. I had to use all my snatcher abilities, and I had to use special magic so I could uncover your wards and so I could hear you. Doesn't it make you wonder if I can hear you, if I could also just reach out and snatch you, sweetness?"

Hermione stepped back a step.

He smirked.

She turned away from him and continued to cry.

"I really want you to stop crying," he said in a lighter tone, but with a threat underneath.

She turned back toward him and yelled, "YOU LEFT ME ALL ALONE! You left me. You left me." Her head fell to her chin, her hands to her face, tears falling freely.

He leaned forward and shouted back, "I'm right here now, my girl! It doesn't seem as if you're alone to me!"

She sunk down on the ground. "Why did you have to talk about taking Ron? He left the same night, and he was gone so quickly. I ran after him, and shouted for him, but he vanished. I thought you took him. You have to see why I would think such a thing. You spoke of it one moment, and then he was gone."

Under his breath, sotto voce, he said, "Please don't cry." He looked down at her and sighed. "I heard you that night. I saw you rush after him. I wasn't even watching him. At that point, I didn't give two figs for the sodding bastard. I heard you three fighting, because I could always hear behind your wards because of the link of the scarf, and then I saw you run after him, crying for him to come back. It broke my heart. I hurt for you. Then I was jealous."

"It's not like that with me and him," she promised, looking up at him. "He's my best friend. I'm tired of telling you that."

Ignoring her comment, he said, "I heard you crying in your tent all night long. It broke my little black heart. I even went after the bastard, after a while, but he was too far gone. When I came back the next morning, you were packed away, and the scarf was tied to a tree. What was I to think?"

She shook her head. She couldn't tell him what to think, when she didn't even know what to think for herself. "I can't do this any longer, Scabior. I can't. It hurts too much. I don't know how to define us. I can't live on eggshells, constantly worrying about whether or not you'll turn us in, or betray me. I know what I feel for you, but I don't know what you feel for me."

"Good for you," he jabbed. "Do you realize that I don't even know what I feel for you, and you've never told me what you feel for me? You might just consider me a pretty face and a decent shag."

Hermione's mouth was open, in shock, but then she blinked back tears and said, "No, you're a decent face and pretty shag." She smiled.

"My girl has a sense of humour, she does." With a wave of his wand, her wards lowered. She backed up toward the tents. "Yeah, you might need to work on those wards. I can cross them easily now, and you don't even have the scarf."

He raised the wards again, and then started to remove the scarf from around his neck, but she halted him by saying, "Don't. Keep it. I won't take it back. I can't. It's not that I don't trust you, but I don't trust myself when I'm with you."

"Fair enough." He wound it back around his neck. "I think it looks pretty with my eyes anyway."

"How did you find me without it?" she asked. "How did you hear me beyond my wards without it, too?"

"Trade secret," he answered. Cocking his head to the side, he asked, "Do you want me to go?"

She shook her head no.

"Then you want me to stay?"

Again, she shook her head no.

"Are you confused?" he asked with a grin.

"Do you promise me that you didn't take Ron?" she quizzed.

Reaching for her hand, he took it in his. He frowned as he gazed down upon it. "I promise I didn't this time. I won't promise that I never will. I will never take you in, by myself. If I'm with my fellows, and we stumble upon you, I'll do everything in my power to get you away from them. I'll pretend to take you in, then I'll take you to safety, but Potter and Weasley are fair game when it comes to the other snatchers, and we won't ever have this conversation again, I do promise that."

"Speaking of which," he asked, looking around, "where's the hero of the story?"

"I can't tell you that, but suffice to say he'll be gone for a while," Hermione explained.

"Show me your humble abode, then," he requested. Taking her hand, he started toward the tent.

Hermione thought of the locket, sitting on the table, just inside the tent, and of the book, which he'd seen before, sitting beside it. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why, because you don't want me to see your sleeping bag and camp stove? Even if I brought you these?" He pulled several tins of soups and canned fruits vegetables out of the pockets of his long, leather coat.

She smiled, took them from him, and then said, "You're trying to bribe me with food?" Hermione held the tins of food in her arms, held back the flap of the tent, and walked inside. He looked inside as she did so. Placing the tins of food on the little table, she quickly grabbed the locket and placed it in the back pocket of her jeans, without him seeing it.

"Yep, is it working?" he asked.

"Not in the least." Walking back outside, she held the book in her hand. "How will I explain the food to Harry?"

"Tell him you found them under a tree. He seems dense enough that he'd believe it," he joked. "What's with the book, are you going to read to me? I'd rather do it inside the tent."

Again, she seemed guarded. She wasn't sure she should let him inside the tent. "First, can you tell me if you've ever seen this symbol?" She opened the cover of the book and showed him the strange symbol drawn on the inside page.

"Can't say that I have, my girl. Let's go inside."

She knew it made no difference, as he was already inside their wards. Stepping ahead of him inside the tent, she said, "Home sweet home."

He walked in behind her and scowled. "I hate to think of you living like this. You deserve all the best things in life. Someday, I'm going to have a house as nice as any you've ever seen, only the best. You wait and see."

Hermione wasn't sure what one sentence had to do with the other, but she wouldn't tempt fate by asking him to elucidate on his thought. He instinctively went to her bunk in the other room, lay down, and patted the small space beside him. "Come on, sit down and read to me, or something. You have your little book in your hand, and I have some time before I'm to meet up with my gang. Potter's not due back in a while. Read to me."

"You want me to read you a story from a book of children's stories?" Hermione asked softly, before she sat down on the small space beside his hip.

"It must be more than that, since you carry it around with you all the time," he surmised.

She opened the book and instead of reading, she showed him the symbol again. "This has really been bothering me. Are you certain you don't know what this symbol means?"

He took the book right from her hand, studied it for a moment, and replied, "No clue. I never made it all the way through school, you know, and me mum never read any nursery stories to me. My childhood was a horror story, as you know." He placed a hand on her thigh and began to rub it back and forth. "Back to our early repartee, what do you feel for me, darling girl?"

"What do you mean?" She closed the book, and placed it under the small bed, then put her left hand on his chest. "Oh, you mean our conversation from way earlier, when we mentioned that we had yet to make our feelings clear to each other."

Sitting up, he struggled out of his long, leather duster, placed it at the end of the camp bed, and then lay back down. "I told you outside that we've never really told each other what we are to each other. Don't you think that's a shame? I'd like to know what you think of me, Hermione Granger. I'd like to know if you even like me as a person. You claim you shed a few tears for me, and that's all well and good, but say if I died tomorrow, would you be sad?"

"Of course I would be," she chastised. "What a horrid thing to ask. Why are you being so morbid? I would be crushed to pieces if you died."

"Then you'd be as sad if I died, as you'd be if precious Potter or Weasley died?" he said, placing one arm behind his head, leaving the other on her leg, moving it slowly, up and down, his fingertips leaving a fire in their wake.

Shocking him, she leaned forward and placed both hands on his chest, her head between them, her ear turned so that she could listen to his heart. He placed one hand in her hair, as she said, "I'd be lost without you. I've come to care more about you than I care to think. You're my first love. I wouldn't have made love to you that day, if I didn't love you."

Instantly, she wondered if she had said too much, because he stiffened underneath her. The hand that had been stroking her hair stopped. She hadn't expected him to say the words in return to her, and she wasn't disappointed, because he didn't. What he did do, was take two deep breaths, and then he began to stroke her hair again, with both of his hands, then down her back and shoulders.

She knew he desired her. She knew it from the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, and the way he made her feel. If he didn't love her, she wouldn't push the matter, but she also would never repeat the sentiment to him. She's already said it twice now. Looking up into his face, in those deep, unnerving eyes, she wanted to know every secret this man possessed, but especially the secret of what he felt for her.

In her mind, she willed him to tell her. Just say it…she thought. Tell me…do you love me? Just a little? A tiny bit? Is it more than desire? More than fascination? More than a game? More than a thrill? More than passion?

He pulled on her until she was lying on top of him. Cupping her face, he asked, "What's wrong, lovely?"

She felt an absolute panic. She wanted to hear the same words repeated back to her that he demanded from her, but instead she said, "Kiss me."

He pulled on her more, until her head was over his, and his firm, dry lips covered her small, wet ones. He teased her with his tongue, and she felt weak and aware. Her body thrummed with something unobtainable, unexplainable, and he continued to kiss her, stroke her, and hold her.

Then he was on top, she was on bottom. His hands roamed all over her, pulling at her sweater, pushing it upward, unzipping her jeans, pulling them down. She thought of the locket, but only for a moment. His fingers went under bra, over her nipples, it felt so right, but so sinful. He brought her entire body to life.

She sucked in a breath as his hand played at the hem of her knickers, then skimmed underneath, touching her passion and fire, her hips swaying upwards, meeting his touch with uncontrolled fervor. Each mew, cry and sound from her mouth was unrehearsed and meant with total desire that rocked her very soul and heart.

His hand continued to mold and move, ply and play, and she tightened around his touch, her thighs quivering, holding his hand in place, moving restlessly, breathing heavily, not in the least bit embarrassed.

She clung to his shoulders, about to cry out again, as his lips came down to cover hers. She threw caution to the wind as he showed the ultimate restraint, and she shattered around him. She surrendered and he remained passive. She knew he was showing the utmost restraint and self-control, even as he brought her to the point of reckless abandonment.

Perhaps this was the way he showed her that he loved her, too.

When she began to come down from her high, he inhaled her perfumed neck. "Beautiful," he murmured, whether he meant the perfume, or her, she didn't know or care. His tongue grazed her mouth, and his hand remained in her knickers, though it was no longer moving.

He deepened the kiss when he finally removed his hand, then he bundled her against him, pulled up the covers, and continued to kiss her neck, face, shoulders, everywhere there was skin. Finally, he righted her clothing, and held her. Her eyes grew heavy, but still, fighting a tired feeling that was seeping through her muscles, bones and pores, she said, "Should I do anything for you?"

"You already did," he remarked, and she thought he said something that sounded achingly like, "you love me."

Still, she clung to the place between sleep and wakefulness for as long as she could. She felt him leave her bunk. He covered her in blankets, kissed her forehead, picked the book up off the floor, where he sat on the side of her cot and studied it for many long minutes before he placed it on the bed beside her.

He stood to leave, grabbing his leather jacket at last. She wanted to protest, but she felt too languid to move.

Still, she heard him say, "Devil take it, darling girl. You're a breath of fresh air in my stale, stagnant life. You're a world of sunshine and innocence. I'm a world of darkness and evil, and those things can never exist together. You still see things with a youthful exuberance that I don't think I ever thought existed. There are places in you that have light, which have only ever known darkness in me. Please don't love me. I'll only give you heartache. I'll cause you nightmares, and pain. I fear the day when your love turns to hate, because I know that day will come, and more's the pity for us both."

She kept her eyes tightly closed, even as he leaned closer, and repeated, "More's the pity, because I love you, too."

Then he was gone, and she let sleep overtake her, and in her dreams, she dreamt of happier times. There wasn't one nightmare that afternoon. Not one, because he loved her, too.

More's the pity.

* * *

**Below is an excerpt 'sneak peek' from my upcoming story, "The List". ENJOY THE SAMPLE!**

**Chapter 1 – You say No, When you Mean Yes**

A piece of white parchment lay on the top of the smooth wooden desk, next to the neat row of Muggle pens, and magical quills, and just right of an antique inkwell. It was folded into fourth, (half, then half again), but still, it stood out on the otherwise neat desk in the corner of the woman's apartment.

The man walking in front of the desk picked up the piece of white parchment and fingered the smooth piece of paper in his fingers over and over again while he contemplated whether or not he should read it, or place it back on the desk, unopened. He opted to read it. First, he looked around the small room to be sure that no one was watching, even though he already knew he was the only occupant in the area.

After ascertaining that he was, in fact, quite alone in the in the office, he sat down in the chair adjacent to the neat desk where he found the piece of parchment, then unfolded it once, then twice, then he read it slowly and surely.

Then he read it again.

It was a list. Not an ordinary list, such as a shopping list, a list of people to invite to a party, or a list of places one wished to visit on a holiday. It was a list of things to do, places to go, things to accomplish. Beyond that, it was a list, made by a woman whom the man held in high regard, though only he knew of that little fact.

Still, he would have thought this woman would have already had accomplished most of the things on this list. Surely, this list was a joke of some kind. Perhaps she wrote it knowing he, or some other sap, would pick it up, read it, and have a good laugh about it.

On the other hand, a few of the things on this list DID seem out of character for this woman. Furthermore, he couldn't fathom why she would want to do a few of the things on this list, yet she must want to do them, because the list was titled, "Things I Want to Do before I Turn Twenty-Seven – By Hermione Granger." The list had 16 items on it, though at the bottom it said, 'go to page two'. There was no page two as far as he could see. He wondered it there was meant to be more to this 'list'? Oh well...he read the list a second time.

Twenty Things I Want To Do Before I Turn Twenty-Seven – By Hermione Granger

1 – Play Quidditch with the boys during their Sunday afternoon game, instead of watching from the ground. (Even though I am afraid of heights).

2 – Learn to drive a Muggle motorbike.

3 – Learn to play poker (and Win, just once, even if I have to cheat).

4 - Conquer my fear of clowns by joining the circus for a day.

5 – Learn to cook a French meal, and then share it with someone, someplace romantic, perhaps Paris, (the top of the Eiffel Tower would do nicely).

6 – Swim with Sharks

7 – Climb a Mountain

8 – Sing in front of a large audience, receive a standing ovation, then have an encore (ENCORE!)

9 – Have one of my short stories published

10 – Be in a Wizard Duel that is just for sport – not for life or limb – and have fun doing it

11 – Find out what those former Slytherins do at 'The Viper's Den'. Then become the only female and former Gryffindor member of this exclusive and elusive club (the existence of which I'm not supposed to know!)

12 – Learn to waltz, and then go to a ballroom, wear a ball gown, and waltz all night long!

13 – Learn to become an Animagus.

14 – Cut Lucius Malfoy's hair

15 – Get totally pissed, out of my mind, and not feel ill the next morning (nor guilty)

16 – Walk around Hogwarts at night, exam every nook & cranny, without anyone else around, with no fear of being caught

The listed ended there. The man looked all around for another page, but could see none. There had to be a page two, since the list clearly stated, 'Twenty things' and this page ended at number 16.

Well, well, well. Little Miss Hermione Granger knew all about the Viper's Den, did she? He wondered? Did she really know what they did at their meetings? He rather doubted it. He got a dastardly thought. He would copy this list and take it to their next meeting. Most of the members of the club had been complaining of a certain form of 'ennui' as of late. This little list of Granger's should snap them all right out of it.

The members of the Viper's Den were going to help Hermione Granger complete her list of 16 (possibly 20) things before her 27th birthday, but she'd have to pay the price, yes in deed; she'd have to pay the price, because this den of snakes didn't do anything for free.


	11. Chapter 11

All characters belong to JKR

* * *

**Chapter 11 – A Gift of Grace**

* * *

_How say ye, "We loved, once,"_

_Blasphemers? Is your earth not cold enow,_

_Mourners, without that snow?_

_Ah, friends, and would ye wrong each other so?_

_And could ye say of some whose love is known,_

_Whose prayers have met your own,_

_Whose tears have fallen for you, whose smiles have shown,_

_So long, "We loved them once"?_

_Say never, ye loved once:_

_God is too near above, the grave, beneath,_

_And all our moments breathe_

_Too quick in mysteries of life and death_

_For such a word. The eternities avenge_

_Affections light of range._

_There comes no change to justify that change,_

_Whatever comes – We loved once!_

_From – Loved Once_

_Verses V & VII_

_Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

"So you're not going to tell me where you're going?"

She looked up at him with big brown eyes, blinked several times in a row, then said, "I really can't tell you, that. I wish you'd stop asking."

Scabior showed up while she was on watch approximately fifteen minutes ago. As soon as he appeared, she made the mistake of telling him that she was anxious because she and Harry were going 'somewhere' important tomorrow.

Now he was pestering the life out of her, tormenting her to tell him where they were going. However, she couldn't tell him. There just was no way she could tell him that tomorrow they were going to Godric's Hollow.

A part of her still thought it was a mistake, while another part of her thought that it was the only answer. For they couldn't remain as they were – stagnant – not going forward, not going back, not seeking answers and not asking questions.

Harry had wanted to go to Godric's Hollow almost from the start. Hermione felt it was a bad idea for just as long. She told Harry that was the first place Voldemort would search for him. Nevertheless, it made sense that they might find some clues there regarding the sword of Gryffindor…in the very village founded by Godric Gryffindor himself, the very village where Dumbledore grew up, the same village where Harry was born and the same place where Voldemort in essence 'died'.

They were set to leave tomorrow morning. That was why Hermione insisted that Harry get as much rest as he could and that she would take the first watch. Tomorrow they would either get some answers to questions, or get more questions than answers.

Hermione stood guard outside the tent this evening, her nerves felt frayed and she was desperately trying to mentally prepare herself for this 'trip', and she didn't need badgering from Scabior. She would rather just talk about something light.

"Please," she asked, "don't ask me where we're going again. I wish I hadn't said anything to you about it now. I'm on edge enough. Can't we just enjoy a few hours together. We haven't seen each other for over a week, and we only have an hour or so until it's time for Harry to take over watch. Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about nonsensical things, or mundane things, such as the weather."

He stood from his place next to her on the ground and glared at her with a stare that spoke of things that were less than boring or nonsense. Still, dismissively, he said, "You want to discuss the weather? Fine. Cold, isn't it?" Turning his back to her for only a moment, he pulled the multi-coloured scarf from around his neck and then turned back toward her. Presenting it to her, he added, "Too bad you don't have a scarf like this to keep you warm and cozy on your trip to wherever the hell you're going."

She rolled her eyes. She knew where this was heading. The last time he saw her, he wanted her to take back the scarf, and she wouldn't, and here came another assault, she just knew it.

"It's December, so yes, it's cold. However, I'm fine without the scarf, thank you," she concluded, folding her book and going to stand beside a tree at the outer edge of their wards.

Walking up behind her, he asked, "Why won't you take it back? You know I have trouble finding you without it, and if you have it on, and get in trouble, I'll be there in a jiffy."

She didn't turn around or comment. She didn't need him to find her, OR to be there 'in a jiffy'.

Standing so close that his breath fanned her neck he said, "You want to take it, you know you do."

"Stop that. I'm not easily manipulated, you know." She didn't know if that statement was made for his benefit or hers, but she felt the need to say it aloud.

"I know that, beautiful girl. Boy, do I know that," he added with a chuckle. "Still, it would settle my old nerves if you wore it again."

Still facing away, clutching the book to her chest, she shook her head no. She was still shaking her head 'no' as she felt him begin to wrap the warm, soft wool scarf around her neck, lifting her hair, fingertips touching the back of her neck like a whispered promise of something more. It smelled like him and she found that smell intoxicating. His hands now brushed over her shoulders. Freezing in shock and something close to arousal, she closed her eyes as he wrapped it around her neck and then tied it in the front.

Pulling her flush against him, he took his time arranging it in the front. He seemed to relish in the moment, touching her, stroking her hair, neck, cheeks, and arms, as he stood behind her. He inhaled deeply, smelling her, taking in every part of her, as he pulled her closer, closer. She felt the evidence of his arousal on her bum and she stiffened. His arms tightened around hers, dragging her arms up to her chest, crushing the book against her heart.

Caged within the confines of his arms, she didn't feel trapped. Instead, she felt safe, but it wasn't real. It was a myth, a fallacy, a misleading notion. Nothing but a falsehood. She was no safer with this man than a lamb would be safe with a lion. Turning in his arms, she pushed away slightly so she could face him.

Looking down, she said, "I can't wear this any longer, you know that, and you know why."

"I know no such thing. Tell me why." He seemed angry. "Why?" That one word held a host of others.

Still looking at the ground she said, "You do know why. You're a smart man and I'm a smart woman. No matter what we've might have said to each other once, no matter what words passed between us – words of love, words of promises, it can lead to nothing. This scarf can lead to nothing."

"It's a fucking scarf, meant to keep you warm, and that's all, my girl," he huffed in pure anger. "I seem to find you just fine without it, so wear the bloody thing. You bought it after all, so it's yours," he demanded, pulling on her arms, to bring her closer. With a finger under her chin, he lifted her head. His anger seemed to flow away as quickly as it came. "Look at me, my one and only," he asked with a sigh.

She did.

"Why do I get a feeling you and public enemy number one are about to do something very stupid? Why do I get the feeling that you're trying to tell me goodbye?"

She didn't reply. Instead, she reached up and pulled the scarf off her neck, left it on the ground, moved out of his arms, and went inside her tent.

He didn't follow.

Days later, she was sitting all alone in another forest, with her back against a tall tree. Harry was in the tent close by, recovering from his fight against Nagini. Voldemort knew they were coming to Godric's Hollow. He had his snake waiting there for them, and Harry was almost killed. In the process of saving him, Hermione accidentally destroyed Harry's wand.

Harry was injured, despondent, dejected, and sad. In addition, he was angry with Hermione and barely speaking to her, and she couldn't blame him. He was allowed to be angry and sad. She would allow him to rest and recover alone and in peace.

That didn't mean that she wasn't angry and sad, too. She'd never felt so alone and angry in her entire life.

She missed her parents. She missed Ron. She was angry at Harry and felt he'd let her down. And fine, Harry was angry with her as well, because of the wand, and probably, secretly because he believed she should have anticipated the dangers facing them at Godric's Hollow (although she did, and she told him as much, but he always expected her to be perfect.)

Christmas was three days ago, and she missed that, too. She used to love Christmas and all its trappings.

Most of all, she missed Scabior.

And just like that, he appeared, on the other side of their wards. She thought of him and he appeared. She heard him talking first, before she felt him.

"Well sweetness, I heard you and the boy that lived almost died. Heard you got into some trouble in Godric's Hollow. Is that the way of it?"

She kept reading. Perhaps if she ignored him, he would go away. Even if her brain ignored him, her heart wanted him near. Its steady beat quickened, beating a firm, hard percussion that she felt in her throat, her limbs, and her bloodstream. She was sure he could hear it.

"Damn stupid to go there, if you ask me, not that you would, would you," he continued. He leaned against the other side of the tree, which was where her wards stopped.

He must have known somehow that she was next to the tree. She said quietly, "Why do I need the scarf? You always manage to find me. You seem to know exactly where I am. Sure, you're on the other side of my wards, but you're right next to the same tree where I'm sitting. I know you can hear me, because I can hear you."

To be cruel, she added, "Funny, if you know where I am now, why didn't you know where I was then?"

"Let's talk about one subject at a time, sweets," he leveled. He sat down next to the same tree, at an angle that made him closer to her than if he sat on the other side of the tree. "What happened at Godric's Hollow? The Death Eaters are all gloating that the boy almost died. They're saying you both almost died. Apparently, they're liars, because here you are, which isn't a big surprise, but I don't see Potter. Tell me what happened."

She put her book down, next to her leg. "It was a trap. Harry wanted to go to Godric's Hollow for a while now, and I finally agreed, though deep in my heart I felt it was wrong. When we arrived, the first thing we did was go to see the house where Harry was born. It's still there, rubble and ruin, debris really, hidden from Muggles. It has a stone plaque outside saying that it's the birthplace of Harry Potter, and all."

Taking a deep breath, she continued to tell him about the graveyard, how they saw Bathilda Bagshot, but how it was really Nagini in disguise. Relaying the fight in the woman's house, her voice grew quieter and quieter. Twice he asked her to speak up or repeat herself.

"Lift your wards and let me in," he finally asked.

She didn't know if she could handle him right now, feeling defeated as she did. "Please go away. I can't, I just can't talk with you about it anymore. Even if I had the scarf on when we went to the village, nothing would have changed the outcome."

"Lift your wards," he repeated with an eerily, but resolute voice.

"You want in so badly, come in. You've done it before." She reopened her book.

He said nothing more about it and neither did she. The weight of silence felt heavy and foreboding. Hermione couldn't stand it a moment longer. She started to cry. Not because she wanted his sympathy. She could care less about that. She started to cry because she had to cry, because he broke the silence with the one sentence that was sure to make her cry.

He said, "You missed Christmas you know."

Clutching the book to her chest, she wiped a few tears from her cheek and replied, "I know. I used to love Christmas. I didn't even know it was Christmas until Harry and I got to Godric's Hollow and we saw decorations on the houses, trees through the windows, and heard carols being sung at a church service."

He walked right up to her and sat down opposite her. Shaking her head slightly she said, "Why do I even bother with the wards? You always get through them anyway."

"No. They're good wards, really. They'd keep almost anyone else out, I swear. I get in because of my connection to you, but it's tricky, and it tires me," he said with a mischievous grin, which soon vanished. Leaning closer to her, his hand reached up for her face. His index finger touched the long scratch on her cheek. "You're hurt, lovely."

"Not really. Just a few bumps and bruises here and there. Scratches and the like," she said lightly. "Can we not talk of it. I really don't want to talk of it. I didn't want to talk of it the last time I saw you, and I really, really don't want to talk of it now."

"I hate that you're hurt. I hate it when you cry," he responded, his hand still on her face, his thumb rubbing back and forth against her cheek, over the scratch, catching the tears. She leaned against his hand. Before she closed her eyes, she saw his jaw clench. She couldn't worry about his anger. She already had to worry about Harry's, so Scabior's anger would have to be his own.

His hand traveled from her face down to her neck. He caressed her throat with nothing more than this thumb, then leaning ever closer, he set his mouth upon hers and kissed her.

It was a guarded kiss. Hesitant and off kilter at first. Then it became harder, laced with something akin to anger. The hand that was on her neck went to the back of her neck. He sidled closer, his thigh touching her thigh, as they faced each other.

His mouth sealed over hers as if he had every right in the world to kiss her. It was as if she were his, and for right now, she wanted to be his. She wanted to drift from her body, let go of all things, and let someone else make all the decisions, right or wrong.

His tongue invaded her mouth, seeking its warmth, and she dropped the book between their bodies and braided her hands in his long hair. When he finally stopped the kiss (a thing she wasn't sure she ever wanted to do) he was still holding her intimately close, his hands on her head, her body almost cradled on his lap, next to the tall, primordial tree.

"Oh, my lovely girl, how I wish things were different. Don't you?" he whispered, each word mimicking a kiss against her skin.

Closing her eyes, she placed her head against his chest and her arms around his waist. "You know I do. When I was little, we would have a giant dinner for Christmas Eve, inviting all the relatives, and after they all went home, my mum and dad would let me pick out one present to open early, right before bed, before all the others were opened on Christmas morning."

He stroked her hair as she spoke. His fingertips on her scalp felt so relaxing, almost hypnotic. "On Christmas morning, my dad used to wake up before me, and he'd always come into my room and wake me up, much to my mother's dismay, and tell me, 'Father Christmas has come, Hermione. Let's go see what he got you.' We'd fly down the stairs, look under the tree, and they'd be a bountiful of presents for me."

"What did you get this year, precious girl?" he asked.

With her head still on his chest, her cheek on the scarf, which was wrapped securely around his neck, she said, "You must know that I didn't get anything. How could I? I told you I didn't know it was Christmas until we went to Godric's Hollow, and that was days ago."

Stroking her hair and back, he asked, "What would you like, if you could have just one thing? One wish."

"If I could have one thing, just one wish, I would have all my blood leave my body, and I would replace it with air, and then I'd become weightless, and I could float high above everything, beyond the reach of all things painful and ugly."

"And if I didn't have any blood, I'd never bleed, and I'd have no pain if I was cut or injured. I'd have no sorrow. I couldn't hurt. I couldn't die. I wouldn't cry."

Pushing out of his arms, she backed up against the tree, suddenly embarrassed by her answer. She pulled the blanket onto her legs, and looked at him to gauge his reaction to her response.

He said nothing. Instead, he pulled a small black velvet pouch from his coat pocket. "Well, I can't quite give you your wish to replace your blood with air," he said lightly, though he looked at her with concern, "but I can give you a belated Christmas present." Reaching over, he seized her left hand, opened it palm up, and emptied the contents of the bag upon it.

In her hand was a smooth, deep red, solid stone, no larger than a coin. She moved her thumb over it several times, as it rested in the palm of her hand. Looking up at him, she asked, "What is this?" She moved the stone from her left hand to her right.

"It'll hold your happy memories. Go on, think of something happy, right now, just fleetingly, no details or anything, then close your eyes, while you hold the stone tightly in your left hand, and think of a happy memory."

Hermione transferred the stone from her right hand to her left, closed her eyes, thought for a moment, and then said, "Now what?"

"Okay, now place the stone back in your right hand and close your eyes again, and empty your mind of all thoughts," he instructed.

She smiled, confused, but did as he instructed. With her eyes still closed, a memory rushed back to Hermione, clear and perfect as the day she lived it. She kept her eyes closed and continued to 'think' of the memory until it was over. It took almost a half an hour, but she relived the memory, eyes closed, with Scabior by her side.

When she opened her eyes, she looked at Scabior with surprise and said, "Oh my. That's something else. It's sort of like a pensieve, only smaller. It's interesting how I only had to think of the thought quickly to have it stored in the stone, but then it came back in vivid detail when I held it in my right hand. What's it called?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't thought of a name for it."

She looked even more surprised. Getting up on her knees, she asked, "You mean to tell me that you thought of the magic for this? You charmed the stone to do this?"

"Sure." He leaned back on his arms and smiled. "I told you I'm smart. Why don't you believe me?"

She examined the small stone in her hand, and then placed it gently in the velvet pouch that was on the ground near her leg. Placing it on top of her book, she got back up on her knees and walked over toward him, until she was right by him as he sat on the ground.

Placing a hand on his cheek, she leaned forward, kissed his other cheek, and said, "That's the best Christmas gift I ever received. It'll help me while we're out here more than you know. Thank you so much. I wish I had something for you."

He wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her over onto his lap.

"You've already given me the best present I've ever gotten, too," he returned. "The ability to say that I was once loved by someone. I never thought I'd have that. By the way, what did you think of? What memory did you use when I told you to think of a memory?" He drew a finger down her cheek, over her nose, around her lips.

She blushed.

Then he knew.

Laughing, he said, "My oh my, but my girl is full of surprises. I thought you'd use a memory from your childhood, one of those nice Christmases that you mentioned, but you used the first time we had sex, didn't you?"

"The only time we had sex, but yes," she affirmed, hiding her face in his chest. "I used that memory."

"We have only had sex once, haven't we? We might have to do something about that. How long do we have until the boy in the tent is mended do you suppose?" he asked with the raise of one eyebrow.

She hit his chest, struggled out of his arms and off his lap. "It's too cold, we're outside, and it's not the right time."

"But you didn't give me a present!" he reminded her teasingly. "Sure, your love is nice and all, but sex would be better, and I gave you a present."

She threw the blanket back over her legs, scooted back up against the tree and said, "Too bad. It's better to give than to receive."

"Who the hell said that?" he asked.

She ignored him. "Do you want to hear about my favourite Christmas?" she asked, tucking the velvet bag into the front pocket of her jeans.

He moved so that he was sitting beside her and said, "Go on, but if you start to make it sound like a damn Dickens' novel, I might have to throw up."

"I think Dickens' Christmases are bleak, but okay, well, one time, when I was five, my father let me pick out the tree, and I was absolutely obsessed with Hans Christian Andersons' '_The Little Fir Tree'_. Do you know it? Anyway, needless to say, we had the smallest, ugliest tree that year. My mother said she had to put most of her ornaments back up in the attic, because the tree could only hold about five ornaments. So anyway…"


	12. Chapter 12

**All characters belong to JK Rowling**

* * *

**Chapter 12 – The Scorn of Saying Goodbye**

* * *

"_Yes," I answered you last night,_

"_No," this morning, sir, I say._

_Colors seen by candlelight_

_Will not look the same by day._

_When the viols played their best,_

_Lamps above and laughs below,_

'_Love me' sounded like a jest,_

_Fit for 'yes' or fit for 'no'._

_Call me false or call me free –_

_Vow, whatever light may shine,_

_No man on your face shall see_

_Any grief for change on mine._

_Yet the sin is on us both;_

_Time to dance is not to woo;_

_Wooing light makes fickle troth,_

_Scorn of 'me' recoils on 'you'._

_The Lady's Yes_

_Verses 1, 2, 3 & 4_

_By Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

When she awoke yesterday morning, she couldn't find Harry anywhere. Concerned, she pulled on her boots and warmest jumper and started out of the tent to look for him, but realized that he had her wand, which meant that it would be too dangerous for her to leave the wards.

Therefore, she could do nothing but go back inside the tent and wait. While she waited, she lay back on her cot, only to fall back to sleep, where she had a dream.

She dreamt she was back at home. It was a sunny day, and her mum and dad were both there, her dad reading the paper on the sofa, her mum knitting in the corner. Walking into the room, she smiled at her parents and started to ask them how they had been, when all of the sudden Scabior walked into the living room from the dining room.

Hermione froze in the foyer. Her parents might see him! He should hide! But wait…he sat down next to her father, placed his feet up on the coffee table and he began to chat with him. Then he said something to Hermione's mother. She laughed at whatever he said.

Hermione smiled. They must know him! They must accept him! Everything was all right. It was fine. She was worried for nothing.

Scabior turned his head to look at her, held out his hand, and said, "Hermione? Hermione, come here. Hermione?"

In her dream, she started toward him, but then her dream faded away, and Scabior's voice became Harry's voice. She heard Harry calling for her.

"Hermione! Come here! Hermione!"

Harry calling her name woke her. That was when she knew it was just a dream, and that was all it would ever be – a dream. That was also when she knew, she just knew, Ron was back.

Scrambling from the bed, she ran outside. Little did she know that they had also found the sword of Gryffindor and had destroyed the locket Horcrux. Running out of the tent to meet Harry's calls, she saw Ron and proceeded to run to him, only to hit him, yell at him, and to call him all sorts of names.

Why did he leave? Where had he gone? Why hadn't he come back sooner? Better yet, why had he come back at all? Now her dream of a life with Scabior would remain nothing but a dream, although she knew in the back of her mind that it was always a farfetched fairy tale at best.

Ron explained everything to them, but still most of it didn't make any sense to her. Angry and confused the rest of the day, she stayed away from the boys, opting to stay outside, by the tent's door, rather than be near Ron inside.

By that night, her temper had cooled a bit. That was when she decided that they needed to go to Mr. Lovegood's house and find out if he knew the meaning of the symbols from the book and the grave. Ron and Harry agreed. They would go in two days.

She also made another decision that night. She had to end her association with Scabior. Their involvement was getting too dangerous. Ron told them horror stories about Snatchers and Muggle-borns. He was almost taken away by Snatchers himself. Moreover, they were getting too close to finding the answers they sought, too close to finding more Horcruxes. She couldn't risk exposing Harry, and now Ron again, to Scabior and his gang.

She couldn't risk falling deeper in love with him, only to have that love crushed in the end.

She wouldn't even tell him goodbye. She knew he was still finding her even without the scarf, and she thought she knew how. He was locating her by several means. He was using several simple spells and charms…locating spells, scent charms, perhaps even some form of Leglimency. She could foil his future attempts at all of these if she so desired.

He was bypassing her wards too easily, too. She would enforce those to the best of her ability. He was a smart man, but she was smarter by half. She loved the man, but there was no future with him. Her dream with him would never be a reality. They were as doomed as Romeo and Juliet. She only hoped their futures weren't as bleak. She spent most of the next day preparing for the next day's trip to Mr. Lovegood's house, and that evening enforcing their wards.

Then, that night, as Harry and Ron played chess in the outer room of their makeshift home, she sat alone in her part of the tent. Next, while putting up a silencing charming, she also said every counter-curse she could think of to counteract whatever spells he was undoubtedly using to locate her without the scarf.

Then she sat on her cot and rock back and forth and began to cry. She cried until her chest hurt. Her chest hurt, her eyes hurt, and she cried until she was sick of crying. She felt betrayed all over again with Ron's return. Months ago, there was nothing she wanted more than for Ron to return to her, but now that he had there was a small part of her deep inside that wished he had never come back.

Because now she would never see Scabior again.

So she cried until every molecule in her entire body was about to burst. Sometime in the middle of the night, after she must have cried herself to sleep, she crawled out of her bed and went to the outer room. There was a plate of food left for her on the table. Ron was snoring in the boy's room. Harry was standing guard by the flap of the tent, using the wand Ron had given him for protection.

Hermione shuffled over to the tent's opening and said, "I'll take over, Harry."

"When did you wake up?"

She shrugged.

"What time is it?"

She shrugged again.

He reached up and pulled her down to him. Then he took her in his arms and held her while she cried some more. He didn't ask her why she cried. He didn't give her false hope, such as: 'everything will be okay' because none of them knew if it would be. He merely held her, rocked her, consoled her, and soothed her.

When her tears became nothing more than mere hiccups, he unbound his arms from her body, wrapped his blanket around her shoulders, and said, "I'm dead to the world. I'm getting some sleep. Put up a silencing charm if you're going to cry some more, okay?"

This made her laugh. He was such a good friend, but in the end, he was still just an insensitive boy. She watched as he walked inside the tent, the flap closing behind him. Because she felt more tears coming, she did put up that silencing charm, then she put her hands over her eyes and began to cry anew.

"You look like some forlorn waif," he said coming close. "Why the tears, angel?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, dropping the blanket from her shoulders, her wand grasped tightly in her hand. Trembling everywhere, she stood to face him. "How did you break my new wards? How did you find me?"

"Wasn't easy," he said flippantly. "You worked hard to hide from me this time, didn't you my girl? And I had to ask myself, why?" He reached for her, but she backed away. "What's wrong with you? Why are you crying? What happened to you? Why do you act afraid of me all of the sudden?"

"You said it yourself," she spat. "You said you asked yourself why," she breathed heavily, "so when you asked yourself this soul-searching question, what insightful answer did you gleam?"

He glared at her long and hard. "You are afraid of me, aren't you?" He reached for her again. She stumbled away once more, tripping over a rock, landing on her backside.

He looked down at her and said, "Your boyfriend came back and suddenly you're afraid of me, is that the most of it? What is it, beautiful? Did he tell you all sorts of horror stories about big bad Snatchers and poor little Mudbloods? Did he tell you some lies about me in particular? What is it?"

She looked up at him from her place on the ground. Picking up the closest rock, she threw it at him. He moved so it wouldn't hit his head. She said, "Yes, that's the way of it! He told me about it!"

"Then did he tell you that he was captured, but let go!" Scabior sneered.

Hermione countered, "He told us he escaped from some Snatchers!"

"Escaped my arse. Your bloody boyfriend couldn't escape with a map and a tour guide holding his fucking hand! I told them to let him go, because he was a pureblood, pure and simple, sweetheart! And why did I do it? I did it for you! Of course, I didn't think he had a chance in hell of finding you again, or I would never have let him go! I didn't want the blighter to come back here and upset you again."

Scabior began to pace back and forth in front of her. She didn't know whether to believe him, but his admission sounded as if it held a sliver of truth to it. Although it didn't matter. She still couldn't trust this man. She couldn't continue her liaison with him. It had to end, right now.

She stood, another rock in her hand, and said, "This has to end. Right here, right now. I can't go on with this. It's too dangerous. We've hit the fork in the road that we've both known from the start that we'd hit. There's no way around it. You have to go your way, and we have to go ours."

Frowning, he said, "When you say, 'our way' you include Potter and Weasley in that group, don't you, love? I was never part of your equation, was I? You've been biding your time with me, and that's all."

Throwing the rock that was still in her hand on the ground, she stalked up to him and leveled, "HOW DARE YOU!" She took several deep breathes to contain her fury. "I dreamt just the other night of a future with you! Can you seriously tell me you ever did the same with me? You're the one who's been playing games with me from the start! But none of this matters! It has to end, and you know it! Please, please, don't make this more difficult than it is! Don't say things you'll regret!"

"Oh, I don't regret a thing, my girl," he said steadily, leaning against a tree, as if he were having a simple conversation, instead of an argument.

"Then don't say things I'll regret!" she cried. "I've been crying all day long, knowing that I was going to have to end this with you. Knowing that I might not ever see you again. I wasn't even going to say goodbye, and it was killing me inside. Maybe I didn't matter to you, I don't know, and I don't care!" She turned from him and hung her head. "Maybe I'm some pathetic little fool, but I cared for you. I care for you still. I love you, I do, but we have different paths we have to take. There's nothing more to say."

Bringing her hands up to her face, she sobbed and said, "Just go. Please, just go."

She waited, biting her lip, staring into the darkness, waiting for him to speak. She didn't know if he would continue to argue, or if he would go freely. When at last she turned around, he was gone. She peered out into the forest, didn't see him, so she sighed with relief. Enforcing the wards once again, she sat back down by the flap of the tent.

Near dawn, when the night had not yet broken the advent of the morning, Ron stumbled out of the tent. He gave her a sheepish grin, told her to get a few hours of sleep before they went to Mr. Lovegood's, and that he would wake her in time for breakfast.

It was dark in the tent. Harry was still slumbering in the boy's room. She went to her own room, pulled the flap, secured it tightly, put up another silencing charm, and then pulled off her boots, jeans and jumper.

When she was in only her knickers, socks, and undershirt, she fell down upon the cot, pulled up her covers, turned to her side, and closed her eyes. Aloud, she said, "Please, please, please, don't let him think that I don't love him. I do. I love him. I didn't want to hurt him. I would tear off my right arm before I hurt him. I feel so torn. I want to do what's right by everyone. I don't know what to do any longer."

She couldn't have stopped the tears from flowing if she tried.

Somewhere again, in the world between dreams and wakefulness, Hermione felt a presence in the room with her. There was no reason to be afraid, because no one could have entered the tent, so she decided she was dreaming. Yet, it felt so real. A dip in the mattress of the small camp bed, cold hands sliding down her back, around to her stomach, over her breasts, up her arms, it all felt so genuine, but it had to be a dream.

One hand came around to hold her firmly against a rock hard erection, the other hand came up to her neck, to hold her head back, positioning her ear under his warm mouth.

Moist breath against her ear felt like heaven as he said, "I know I'm not the type of man you would choose for yourself, princess. But that doesn't mean that I wouldn't choose you." His voice held a spark of regret, and if this wasn't a dream, she might have recoiled, as if slapped.

A large leg hooked over hers, trapping hers, as a hand went between her legs, rubbing, parting her folds. Suddenly, her clothing was gone, and his flesh was between her flesh, his penis gliding in and out, a most strange sensation, as he held her from behind, his hand on her hip, one hand still between her legs, pressing at her center.

She moaned. He withdrew and turned her to face him, though it was still dark, her eyes still mostly closed, the hint of desire still too much. Tears shielded her vision as he entered her again, face-to-face, his heavy body on top of hers now, embracing her fully, slow and steady, insistent, but silent, so silent, not speaking another word.

Oh but for this to be a dream…but was it a dream, or was it real?

He kissed her neck, breasts, chest, face, mouth. She cried out. He murmured something against her neck, withdrew from her, and then told her, "Sh, hush now."

It was real. Oh, lord, she knew it was real then, because she felt her heart shatter into a million pieces as he moved from on top of her, and she was so suddenly cold, bereft, lonely, almost exiled.

He dressed quickly, wrapping the scarf around his neck lastly. Then he covered her with the blankets, kissed her forehead, and then said, "Goodbye, my little love."

Then he left, merely Disapparated from inside the tent, though it shouldn't have been possible. She no longer cared. After tomorrow, after they talked to Mr. Lovegood, she would find another way to keep him out of the tent, but right now, she didn't care about anything.

Rolling into a ball, she closed her eyes, and went to sleep…where she had a dream…about him.

* * *

_A/N: At first, I wrote this chapter totally different. I had them end up angry with each other. I had him almost 'assault' her at the end, instead of making love at the end, because I wanted that much anger to be between them, that much betrayal, almost hate. I wanted there to be a reason he would suddenly turn around from loving her to turning her in during the next chapter._

_But it didn't feel right, so I changed it, softened it, and I'm glad I did. I'll try to explain away why he would 'snatch' her next chapter another way._

_We are coming dangerous close to the end of the first movie...and the beginning of the next, so I think I'm right on track. Sorry this was a day late. Couldn't be helped, really. Thanks for reading and reviewing!_


	13. Chapter 13

All characters belong to JKR

* * *

**Chapter 13 – The End of Part I – Scabior's View**

* * *

_Five months ago, the stream did flow,_

_The lilies bloomed within the sedge,_

_And we were lingering to and fro,_

_Where none will track thee in this snow,_

_Along the stream beside the hedge._

_Ah, Sweet, be free to love and go!_

_For if, I do not hear thy foot,_

_The frozen river is as mute,_

_The flowers have dried down to the root,_

_And why, since these be changed since May,_

_Shouldst thou change less than they?_

_From Change upon Change_

_Paragraph 1_

_By Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

Scabior watched from his place in the woods with his fellows close beside him. _They _had been here, oh yes, they had been here recently. He wouldn't tell the others that. If it had been any other Mudblood he would have revealed it, but it was HIS Mudblood that had recently set up camp here, so he would keep it to himself.

She wondered how he continued to find her – silly girl. He would be able to find her for the rest of her life. She could go a million miles away from him and he would still know where she was. He had a connection to her now that went beyond a faded, tartan scarf. He rubbed the soft wool that he always wore around his neck now. Finding people was his trade, his talent, his greatest magical ability. But finding her was his lifeblood, his soul, his reason for living.

He used more than his nose, his senses, his 'snatching' abilities to find his girl. He used his heart. He couldn't explain it any more than he could stop it. It was as if an invisible string went from his heart to hers, and no matter how many times she tried to sever the string, it would grow back, stronger, more resilient, and he would find her all the same.

He couldn't explain how he could go past her wards. He wished he knew how he did it, but he didn't know. He couldn't go past other wards, only hers. Perhaps it was her magic that connected them, not his. Perhaps it was her love for him that made it possible. Those fools who thought Mudbloods were inferior to purebloods had never met his beautiful girl. No matter. He didn't care to explore it. He only cared that it was.

"Someone was recently here," the werewolf shouted.

Fucking monster. He hated the cretin. He only kept the moron close by to keep him in line, and to keep an eye on him. "Do you think?" Scabior spat back. The ground was disturbed, there was evidence of a campfire, and Scabior could feel residual magic. Yes, someone had been here.

"I can smell them," Fenrir continued. Scabior perked up at that assessment. He knew how much the werewolf coveted his lovely, talented Hermione. No matter what, he would never let the monster have her. The werewolf's obsession with her went as far back as when she was a child – sick bastard that he was.

Fenrir bent down, picked up some weeds and brambles and stood suddenly. "I think we're on the right track. I swear, I think it might be them. Potter, Weasley and the girl. Ah, I might have her at last."

Not if Scabior could help it. And the dog didn't have to elaborate. Everyone knew to whom he referred. The others in the gang started to cheer and slap each other on the back. Making plans and smiling. No matter as Scabior was their leader. He had diverted them from his girl's path before and he would do it again.

"This only means they were here. It doesn't mean they'll be back." Although Scabior felt otherwise this time. He knew deep in his heart that they had probably just been here this morning. Though his lovely was too smart to leave the camp site set up if they left for a day, that didn't mean they wouldn't come back to the same spot, if they felt it was safe.

Scabior continued, "I say we go on, chaps. We're probably fresh on their trail. Let's go."

Just as he pushed off the tree, he heard three distinct pops and his heart fell down to his knees.

Everything after that was a blur. He saw all three of them, and so did everyone else. After that, it was a maelstrom of running, chasing, watching out for her. She was fast, his girl. They caught the ginger first. She was ahead of them all. Potter was right behind her. The werewolf, the fucking creature, was close to her. Scabior ran until his lungs felt as if they would burst and his legs felt as if they were heavy, leaden weights.

In the confusion, he didn't see what happened, but he knew someone had caught them before he did. Potter went down; one of his men grabbed her. Fenrir grabbed ginger – good, he could kill the boy for all he cared, as long as he didn't touch a hair of Hermione Granger's head.

Fenrir hit ginger a few times. Scabior walked over to Hermione. She looked genuinely scared. She should be. He was scared for her. Glancing over toward Potter quickly, he could see that his girl had done something to disguise Potter's face. That might buy them some time, but that was all it would do.

They all gave them fake names. One of his mates looked the names up in their books…no, they weren't listed as known Mudbloods or runaways. He approached Hermione. She was shaking in fear. He wanted to say something to her, reassure her. It felt as if he hadn't seen her in weeks, though it had only been last night. Taking her hair, he sniffed it, said something off colour, everyone laughed.

From the other side, ginger said something. Fenrir hit him again. Then Fenrir said, "Is it Granger? Let me over there. Let me smell her!"

"Not bloody likely," Scabior said under his breath. Aloud, to the crowd, as one of his snatchers held her arms back, he said, "I'll just be taking her over to the trees, to interrogate her." To Hermione he said, "Hello, Beautiful. You smell like vanilla, you do."

The boys in his gang laughed. He smiled. He wanted them to believe that he was going to have his way with her, even though he had never done such a thing before. If he could get her away from all of them, he could help her escape. Grabbing her arm, he started to pull her off into the woods.

He never made it.

"What's this?" he heard the werewolf ask.

He turned as a response. The werewolf used his wand to push back Potter's hair. There on his forehead, for the entire gang to see, was Potter's scar. They were doomed. He could hear her breathing quicken beside him. He couldn't do anything about her now.

Pushing her toward one of the 'nicer' snatchers, he walked up to Potter. Their only hope was to take them directly to Malfoy Manor. He knew that the Dark Lord wasn't there at the moment, so they could bide their time. If they took them to the Ministry, his love would be sent right to Azkaban. If he took them to Malfoy Manor, they had a chance. He would think of something on the way there. He would figure out a way for her to escape.

"Change of plans, boys," Scabior said. "We're not taking this lot to the Ministry."

He pushed Potter toward Greyback and to appease the monster's ego he said, "I can't trust the others with Potter. You hold onto him but good, Greyback." The ugly creature smiled in delight and held Potter's arm.

He reached around, took Hermione from the other Snatcher, and said, "Let's Disapparate to the edge of the Manor."

They all arrived there at the same time. For one brief second he thought of taking her somewhere else, but that would never do. He would be a wanted man, and she a wanted woman. He couldn't help her that way. He would have to play it all cool, and easy, and perhaps, just perhaps, he could get her out of this mess somehow.

Walking slowly down the long drive toward the gates of the Manor, he fell behind the others, loosen his hold on her arm and asked, "Are you alright, sweetheart?"

"I hate you," she mumbled under her breath in low tones.

"Well, hell, you didn't have to whisper that," he leveled. "You could have shouted that to the mountaintops, and everyone would have believed you." He placed his right arm around her shoulders and gripped his left hand around her arm. "Now, I'm asking, are you alright?"

"What's going to happen to us?" She looked up at him with big brown eyes. They were full of fear, anxiety, and anger.

"I don't know, but stick close to me, no matter what. I'll try to think of something."

"You could have Apparated us anywhere. You didn't have to bring me here," she accused.

He kept walking, but slower, so they lagged even farther behind, though no one noticed. "And take you away from your boys? You would have hated me even more. Wouldn't you have?"

They looked at each other.

"Because it's not too late," he whispered. "If you still want me to do it, I will. We aren't under protection wards until we pass by that gate up there. I can take you to safety, but I can't do anything about Potter and Weasley."

He could tell she felt torn. With a small shake of her head, her decision was made. They had reached the others anyway. It was time. Passing her to another, he walked up to the gate, where crazy Bellatrix Lestrange stood.

To be continued…

* * *

_I know it was short, but I wanted to time everything perfectly to the start of the next movie, so I cut this chapter in to two. Thanks!_


	14. Chapter 14

All characters belong to JKR

* * *

**Chapter 14 – Beyond a Beating Heart**

* * *

_Each creature holds an insular point in space;_

_Yet what man stirs a finger, breathes a sound,_

_But all the multitudinous beings round_

_In all the countless worlds with time and place_

_For their conditions, down to the central base,_

_Thrill, haply, in vibration and rebound,_

_Life answering life across the vast profound,_

_In full antiphony, by a common grace?_

_I think this sudden joyance, which illumes_

_A child's mouth sleeping unaware may run_

_From some soul newly loosened from earth's tombs,_

_I think this passionate sigh, which half-begun_

_I stifle back, may reach and stir the plumes_

_Of God's calm angel standing in the sun._

_Life_

_By Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

She was gone. And there was no way she'd ever forgive him now. He'd never forgive himself, either. He did nothing to stop them from taking her. He marched right up to Malfoy Manor, walked inside the Dark Lord's fortress, gave her and the boys over to the three Malfoys and that crazy bint, Lestrange, and before he could formulate a plan to help her escape, the crazy witch went berserk on them. Bellatrix started to shout that someone had been in her vault and she took a sword from one of his fellow snatchers. Then before Scabior could do a damn thing, she had him and Greyback constrained and taken outside.

She killed two of his men in the process.

While two Death Eaters were _escorting_ him to the grand foyer outside the main hall, he heard the crazy bitch say that she was going to 'play' with the Mudblood. She was going to make her confess. The Death Eaters told Scabior and the others to wait until the Dark Lord appeared. Even from their place in the foyer they could hear his girl screaming.

She screamed and screamed and screamed.

What was the hag doing to her?

Each scream was like a stab wound, which directly pierced his heart. It was all too familiar. It reminded him of how his little sister Ellie probably cried and cried for help when she was little and their mother's boyfriend raped and killed her, yet he was powerless to stop it. Now his lovely girl cried for help, and he was powerless to stop it. He tried. He climbed back up the stones steps leading to the main hall, stepped over the dead body of his fellow snatcher and banged on the door, demanding to be let in, but no one heard him.

His magic was useless in this house of hell. He tried to draw upon the bond that was between them, but as he often suspected, the bond was a product of her extreme magical gift, not his. Because of the torture, their bond was broken. Soon, the sounds of her screams faded.

Greyback snarled, said something crass along the lines of, "There won't be anything left of the Mudblood for me when Bella's done with her," and he left. Scabior thought the werewolf left before the Dark Lord appeared more out of fear than anything else. The other bloke left, too, leaving Scabior by himself.

He knew if he walked outside these doors he would never get back inside, yet he didn't want to wait inside for the Dark Lord to come either. Scabior's heart felt heavy. Closing his eyes, he wondered if she was dead. Would he feel it if she died? Walking back and forth in the entry hall, he contemplated every thought that popped into his head, but acted on none.

In the end, he decided there was nothing he could do. He couldn't get back inside the heavily guarded mansion, even though he tried very hard. She wasn't dead, because he refused to think of that as a possibility. He would die if she died. He knew that he would know deep in his heart if she were dead. Seeing no other option, he left.

He went back to the forest. Then he started to run. There was no reason to run, but still he ran. He ran and ran and ran. He ran until his lungs hurt. He ran until he thought he would stop breathing. He ran until night fell. He ran until his boots were so worn that they practically slipped off his feet. Finally, when he stopped, he discovered that his face was wet.

Was he crying? Over a bloody Mudblood? Was he truly crying for the first time in his life over a fucking girl who he should have taken into custody a long time ago? He didn't cry when he was a young boy and his sister died! He didn't cry when they placed him in an orphanage! He didn't cry when dark and sinister things were done to him in that orphan! He didn't cry during his short stay in Azkaban!

Why was he crying now?

The Dark Lord would probably praise him for being the one to bring them to him. The Ministry would give him a bloody award and a bonus. He would be a hero.

He dropped to the ground and cried some more.

He was a worthless human being. He always knew it. He always felt it to be true. The only person who ever made him feel as if he had any significance and who ever made him feel as if he was worthy of loving was his beautiful girl.

Where was she right now? He reached up for the scarf still tied around his neck. Usually, it tethered him to her, but for the first time ever it felt as if the line between them had been detached. He took it off his neck, folded it, and tucked it inside his waistcoat. Leaning against a tree, he closed his eyes and tried to think of her. He would probably never see her again, and that was how it should be. That was right. Loving her, being with her, thinking he had a future with her, and right to have a life with her, a right to love her…that was all wrong.

He slumped over and closed his eyes and wept some more, then fell asleep in the woods.

_Weeks later –_

The rays of sunlight, new in the morning sky, flashed across the meadow of high grass where she sat. To the right of her was their temporary haven, Shell Cottage. In front of her, below a cliff, sat the sea, and to the left was the unknown. Turning her head to the left she wondered if that was where HE was. Was he lurking somewhere out there in the unknown?

She never felt him anymore. They had been at Shell Cottage for weeks now and everyday she got stronger, recovering from the torture by Bellatrix. And everyday she would climb this grassy knoll, seeking solitude from her friends, seeking comfort from him, but he never came.

Perhaps he never really cared. Perhaps it was all really a game to him. A game of '_catch and release'_. A game of '_cat and mouse'_. It hurt terribly to think that she had been wrong about him. That she had been so foolish, but it must be true, because he promised that he would come whenever she thought of him and needed him, yet he hadn't come once since their escape from the Manor. Not once.

Her longing for him was so strong it was in her blood. It mingled with her breath, and it floated around her in the air, strong, pungent, and overpowering. She welcomed the night. She could dream of him. She didn't want to forget his face or his feel. Even if what they had wasn't real to him, it was to her. He couldn't take that away from her. No one could.

In a few days they were going to Gringotts to break in to Bellatrix' vault. While Harry and Ron were at the house with Griphook, making plans, she knew she'd have time to seek him out one last time. Leaving the tall, grassy hillside, and going beyond Bill Weasley's wards down the ragged, rocky, cliff side to the sea, she'd give him one last chance to come to her. If he didn't come this time, she would say 'good riddance' to him forever.

Taking off her shoes and socks, rolling up her jeans, she slipped her feet in the cold sea. The foam of the waves crashed around her. The sound here was loud, but it was comforting. Leaving shoes and socks behind, she skipped over rocks, through the sand, and continued walking east, farther away from the hill where the cottage sat.

A longing for him suddenly stabbed her in the heart so sharply that she was overwhelmed with want, grief, and every emotion in between. She sat down on a large boulder, one where the sea could only splash around her, bowed her head, and closed her eyes.

She felt the loss of the sun's warmth on her back before she felt him. Opening her eyes before lifting her head, she saw his shadow as if fell across the rock face. Jerking her head upward, with a heavy thumping in her chest, she tried to concentrate on the loud rippling of the water and not on the voice behind her, though she couldn't really ignore him as he said, "Hello, beautiful..."

* * *

_*Sorry this is so late. I've been working so many days in a row, and really long hours. The next chapter is done, but not back from the beta, so I don't know if it will be posted Sunday or not. This story will only be 16 chapters. I definitely will gloss over the whole 'battle scene' that is DH2._

_Thanks._

_And to anyone reading 'The List' - Chapter 10 of that is with the beta now. Thank you!_


	15. Chapter 15

**all characters belong to JKR**

* * *

**Chapter 15- To Think of You**

* * *

_O solemn-beating heart_  
_Of nature! I have knowledge that thou art_  
_Bound unto man's by cords he cannot sever-_  
_And, what time they are slackened by him ever,_  
_So to attest his own supernal part,_  
_Still runneth thy vibration fast and strong,_  
_The slackened cord along._

_For though we never spoke_  
_Of the grey water anal the shaded rock,-_  
_Dark wave and stone, unconsciously, were fused_  
_Into the plaintive speaking that we used,_  
_Of absent friends and memories forsook;_  
_And, had we seen each other's face, we had_  
_Seen haply, each was sad._

_A Seaside Walk_

_By Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

_Sitting upon the cliff overlooking the sea, with the warmth of the sun upon her back, she swore she could feel his presence. Opening her eyes before lifting her head, she saw his shadow as if fell across the rock face. Jerking her head upward, with a heavy thumping in her chest, she tried to concentrate on the loud rippling of the water and not on the voice behind her, though she couldn't really ignore him as he said, "Hello, beautiful..."_

* * *

Conscious of each breath, she counted to ten in her head before she turned around to face the person who belonged to the voice solely because she couldn't stand the thought that this might be a dream. This person could be a phantom. She had imagined this moment so many times since she had last seen him at Malfoy Manor that she truly didn't know if she could face him or not.

There were so many things she wanted to say to this man. She wanted to ask him 'WHY?' more than anything. Why had he broken his promise? He had told her that he wouldn't turn her in, NO MATTER WHAT, yet he had. Could she forgive him? Could she look him in the eye and tell him that all was forgiven and that she still cared for him? Deep down she knew he wasn't here to cause her harm, yet she should be afraid, because he did nothing to protect her before.

Did he hear her cries? Did he know the torture that she was enduring at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange? Was he merely doing his job? Perhaps that was the reason he was here today. Instead of apologizing, maybe he was here to turn her in instead.

While she was silently musing, still gazing out at the rolling sea splashing happily on the rocks below her, he finally said, "Are you going to continue to ignore me, or are you going to tell me hello?"

She closed her eyes. She longed to stand up, rush to this man, throw her arms around his neck, and to cry upon his chest. She wanted to tell him everything that she had endured at the hands of the female Death Eater. She wanted...she wanted..."Lovely?" he interrupted, "are you listening to me? Are you going to acknowledge that I'm here?" He gave up standing beside her, opting to sit next to her instead.

The sun was high in the sky, it was warm, and the breeze was strong, blowing from the west. His shadow fell across her legs and for some reason that bothered her, so she drew her legs up to her chest, tucking her knees under her chin. Finally, she said, "I thought of you."

"I know," he returned. "That's how I came to find you again." He unwound the scarf from his neck and placed it on the ground between them. "I've come to realize that the magic of the scarf is more reliant on your whims than mine, much to my chagrin. Maybe that's how it should be. I'm not used to that, though. I've never been used to that."

She turned to look up at him.

Staring into her eyes he claimed, "I've come to realized that it's okay to care about someone other than myself. I've never cared for anyone besides my little sister and myself. It was easier that way, but somehow, along the way, I've come to realize that it's okay to care about you, too, beautiful. Makes me less of a selfish sod, but I can live with that. Can you?"

She looked away.

"We're so different, you and me, lovely. As different as the proverbial night and day, we are. This was a dangerous game we entered, and though you didn't have much of a choice in the beginning, I did, and I'm ready to live with the consequences. There can be no winners in this game, sweetness. Only losers. We're on different sides, because we can't both fight for what's right. One of us has to be wrong. We can only fight to stay alive at this point, and do our bests to survive. That's all I've wanted for you, my girl. I want you to be safe and happy and alive, no matter what. You have to stay alive, have a future, even if that future is being married to the ginger, and having lots of ginger babies, or if it's a different future, maybe one with me. Who knows? See, I'm being selfless. Who would have thought?"

She took a deep breath and looked back at him at this point. "May I have my say now? Are you quite done with your speech?"

He laughed. "Quite. The floor's yours."

"When I said that I thought of you," Hermione began, "what I meant was that I thought of you when Bellatrix tortured me. I thought of you when she sent the Crucio curse on me over and over again. I thought of you when she carved the word 'Mudblood' on my arm." She rubbed her hand on one spot over her other arm, his eyes flashed toward the motion, and then quickly scanned back to her face.

She continued, "I thought of you as I lay on the floor, helpless, crying, afraid, in pain. Blood flowing out of me, tears falling from my eyes, and in my hour of darkness I thought of you. It felt as if shards of glass had cut my insides to ribbons and still I thought of you."

He flinched a bit, clenched his jaw, but wouldn't look away. She was glad for that. She felt he at least owed her that much.

She didn't want to shed another tear in front of this man, so she was angry when a wayward tear fell from her eye and dropped off her chin to her knee. Ignoring it, she said, "I thought of you as I felt what I assumed was my last breath leave my body. I thought of you when I thought it was going to be the last coherent thought in my brain. You think you've discovered your altruism? Jolly good for you, but where was it when I needed it?"

Turning slightly, she stated, "If we're so bloody connected, by the scarf, or by some invisible bond or whatever, then what I don't understand, Scabior, and what I was hoping you'd be able to make me understand, help me to comprehend, is why if I thought of you, and only you, so deeply, so dearly, so openly, with so much need, so much want, with such a deep basic requisite want of my soul, then why didn't you come for me? Why didn't you come to me when I needed you the most? You were still there, at least at the first, because I felt you. But you did nothing to help me, at least as far as I could tell. You left me there. No, you took me there."

"And even after you left Malfoy Manor, because I felt the moment that you left, why didn't you come back for me? Didn't you hear my screams? Didn't you hear my cries? Or didn't you give a damn?"

He shook his head a bit and said, "Well, Hermione," (it may have been the first time he had ever called her by her name) "I believe your speech was better than mine. You rather said it all. I have no reply. How could I, when you're right and I'm wrong?"

She waited a moment and then stood to leave and he didn't stop her, even though a part of her wanted him to. Still – he couldn't say that she hadn't spoken the truth. And whether or not he felt shame or guilt or remorse she would never know from his words in return or from the expression on his face. He simply stood beside her, after having picked up the scarf from the ground first, and then he Disapparated away.

_**Weeks later – Hogwarts, after the final battle**_

The battle was over and chaos and terror still reigned everywhere, even though the light side had won and the dark side was put asunder. Bodies were strewn across the courtyard of Hogwarts School, some dying, some dead. Others were walking around, broken, ragged, battered, and everywhere there was an eerie silence. Even as smoke filled the air from fires and debris, birds could be heard singing, wind could be heard in the trees, a few cries could be heard, and a sense of calm was beginning to fill everyone's hearts as they finally realized it was over. It was truly, finally over.

Hermione stood among the scene around her, gazing at the confusion, though she felt as if she was in a walking trance. She knew she had one last task to complete before THIS could be over for her.

She couldn't ask for help. Ron was off with his family, mourning the loss of their beloved Fred.

Harry was alone somewhere in the castle, as it should be, as it must be.

The Malfoys were being held off to one side by guards. Most of the other Death Eaters were gone – they were all dead or they had all run away. Bellatrix was dead. That was good.

Continuing her walk amongst the ruins and wreckage she paused when she thought she saw a familiar face. A man standing next to a tree at the edge of the courtyard looked like one of Scabior's former Snatchers. She rushed up to the man, eyes blazing, energy renewed, to where he stood and she asked, "Where is he?"

He merely stared beyond her shoulder, as if she wasn't there.

She pushed on his chest, causing him to bring his attention to her face. Incensed, she asked, "Tell me where he is!"

"Dead, isn't he?" the man said in a monotone voice, dead eyes.

That wasn't the answer she wanted, so she asked again with more force. "Tell me where he is!"

"Dead. They're all dead."

It dawned on Hermione that this man may not know to whom she referred. She balled her hands into fists, moved right in front of his body and said, "I mean Scabior the Snatcher! What happened to him?"

The man moved his head to look her right in the eyes and in a dead, muted, empty, hollow voice said, "I know who you meant. He talked about you, you know. None of us were ever to touch you. He would have killed us if we did. And he's dead. They're all dead. Dead."

Hermione pulled back her hand and slapped the man in the face as hard as she could. His face recoiled slightly, but the blank expression remained.

Neville Longbottom rushed up to the pair, pulled on Hermione's arm before she could slap him again, pulled her around to face him and demanded, "Hermione, what's wrong? What happened? Let me take you back up to the castle."

Turning fully toward him, she bunched his shirt in her hands and begged, "Neville, will you help me find something!"

"Something?" he asked, his gaze falling to the dead expression on the face of the man standing behind her.

"Yes, it's something that someone took from me and I desperately need it back!" she clarified. "It's a scarf. A tartan scarf – Merino wool, fuchsia, purple, grey…it may be a bit torn and tattered now, and someone may be wearing it. Please, help me find it. I can't feel it anymore! I can't feel it!"

"You can't feel it?" He looked at her oddly, but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. "Hermione, we can't possibly find a scarf among all of this…" and he spread his arms wide, "so please, come back up to the castle with me,"

"But I have to find it!" she said with finality. "You don't have to help me, but I have to find it."

She started looking first along the courtyard of their once beautiful school. Neville saw that there was no way he was going to be able to stop her as she ran from one pile of rubble to another, from one dead person to another. Seamus approached him and asked, "What's Hermione doing?"

"She says she's looking for her scarf. She says it's important and that she has to find it," Neville answered.

By that time, Oliver Wood walked by and said, "If the lass says it's important, even if it's only important to her, don't you think we should all help her find it, after everything they all did for us?"

Neville nodded in agreement. "I was going to suggest the same thing. Hermione…wait up!"

Soon, there were many more helping Hermione find 'her scarf'. She never explained to a single soul that she was searching for the person attached to that scarf. Instead, she described the scarf to them, told them she had to find it, and they all helped to search.

They searched for hours. They searched the old Quidditch pitch, around the Black Lake, and finally they started searching the forest. No one ever asked why.

As the hour grew later, the sky dark, Luna Lovegood shouted from a thicket of pine trees, "I found it! I found the scarf."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she started to run. Stumbling, she would have fallen, except Neville grabbed one arm and Oliver grabbed the other to assist her down the path toward Luna's voice. They came to the place indicated, where Luna was standing, her arm out, her finger pointing.

There, around a tree, was tied a tartan scarf.

Hermione walked up to it slowly, hand out, and she touched it with the tips of her fingers, stroking it softly. What did it mean? Was he dead or alive? Did he place it there before the battle or afterwards? Untying it carefully, she felt a terrible restriction in her chest, her last words to him bouncing around her mind, filling her with guilt and shame.

She wrapped the scarf around her neck, sunk to the forest floor and began to cry. Someone in the crowd asked, "What does it mean?" Neville replied, "It doesn't matter. It's Hermione's scarf and she needed it."

She refused to go back to the school with any of them. Instead, she stayed by the tree, wearing the scarf, thinking of him, hoping he would return. Clutching it to her chest, she rocked back and forth and cried, and she thought of him...she thought of him.

That was how Ron found her in the early hours of the dawn, right before he guided her back to the castle, away from the tree, away from the forest, away from him.

* * *

_(One more chapter…happy endings?)_


	16. Chapter 16

All characters belong to JKR

* * *

**Chapter 16 – The Final Chapter**

* * *

_I stand by the river where both of us stood,_

_And there is but one shadow to darken the flood;_

_And the path leading to it, where both used to pass,_

_Has the step of but one to take dew from the grass –_

_One forlorn since that day._

_Go, be sure of my love, by that treason forgiven;_

_Of my prayers, by the blessings they win thee from heaven;_

_Of my grief, (guess the length of the sword by the sheath's)_

_By the silence of life, more pathetic than death!_

_Go – be clear of that day._

_That Day_

_Verses 1 & 4_

_By Elizabeth Barrett Browning_

* * *

A little girl with long dark curls ran down the gloomy, dank alleyway, a tartan scarf tucked safely inside her jacket. When she finally stopped running, she sat down on a stoop in front of an empty storefront, pulled the frayed wool scarf out of her coat, and wrapped it tightly around her neck once more. Then she took one end and dried the errant tears that ran down her face.

She was scared. She had never been in Knockturn Alley before, nor had she ever been this far from her mother's store. She knew she should turn around and go back to the bookstore, but her mummy was fighting with her daddy again, and she couldn't bare it another second. They probably didn't even notice that she had gone.

They were fighting about her again. Ever since she could remember, she recalled hearing them argue and bicker and often it concerned her. She never really knew why. This time it was the worst fight they had ever had.

She went to work with her mummy sometimes and while she was busy with customers, the little girl went up to the attic of the large bookstore to explore. It was something she did often, and her mother never seemed to mind. The attic contained all sorts of treasures, because the store once belonged to her Uncles Fred and George, and it had many of their former inventory and prototype items stored up there.

After her Uncle Fred died (long before she was born), George closed the store. He said it reminded him too much of his beloved twin. Shortly after that, her mummy opened a bookstore in the same building. One of the little girl's favourite things to do was to go to work with her mummy on the weekends, help in the store, and when it wasn't busy, she loved to go exploring upstairs.

Today was no exception. She went upstairs while her mummy was working down in the store, and she began to look in boxes and crates. Her mummy once told her that she had a natural ability of finding interesting things. She told the little girl it was a talent that she should be proud of, which she was.

It was cold up in the attic today, being November, but the little girl went up there with no qualms, doing what she did best, 'seeking out treasures', when she came upon a locked trunk that she'd never seen during any of her earlier excursions.

She fiddled with the lock for ten minutes, but it wouldn't open. Too young for magic, and not yet having a wand, she knew she couldn't open it that way, so she was ready to abandon this trunk for another. However, when she turned around to leave, a deep feeling pulled her back. She felt as if she was literally 'tugged' back to the trunk by an invisible string. Staring at the trunk, trying to figure out how to open it, she finally came upon a brilliant plan.

Sneaking quietly back down the stairs, she went to her mummy's office and grabbed a Muggle knife that was used to open boxes. Back up stairs in the attic, she turned the trunk around so she was facing the back of it, and she pushed the knife inside as hard as she could.

Sawing the same place with the knife for several minutes, she made a place large enough for her hand. Feeling around blindly in the trunk, she felt what she considered ordinary things…a book, a beaded purse, a locket, some sort of goblet. Then she felt something soft. Wrapping her hand around the soft wool, she pulled it out of the small hole and gasped when she saw it.

It was a scarf. Torn, tattered, with holes in it, the colours were faded, yet she thought it was one of the prettiest things she'd ever seen. She felt instantly connected to it. Placing it around her neck, she tied it securely and rushed down the stairs to show her mummy. She always had to ask her mummy if she could keep the bounty that she found, even though Uncle George once told her she could have anything she wanted from up there.

Bounding down the stairs with a smile on her face, one hand fisted around the end of the scarf, the little girl ran into the store to find not only her mummy, but her daddy, too. Before she could even ask her question, her daddy asked, "Where the hell did you get that thing?"

Her mummy gasped, placed her hand over her mouth and said, "Oh my God."

The little girl was confused. "I found it up in the attic in an old trunk. It was with Uncle George's things. Can I keep it?"

Daddy rushed up to her and began to take it off her neck. It scared her and she pushed at his hands. Mummy rushed up to her, too and hit at her daddy's hands. "No, Ron. Don't. You'll scare her."

"I don't want her to have anything to do with him!" he yelled.

The little girl began to cry. Her daddy looked back at her, reached out his hand and said, "Give it to me this instant! I mean it, young lady. If you don't, you'll be punished!"

"No she won't!" her mummy argued. "Darling, give me the scarf, though. Daddy and I need to talk, and then I might give it back to you later, okay?"

"You won't give it back to her!" her daddy shouted.

That was when the little girl backed into the corner, and her parent's began to argue. They argued like they had never argued before. Her mummy even pushed her daddy, very hard, and he stumbled. They said things that confused the little girl. Things about why they married, some man, and they mentioned her name several times. That was when she slipped out the door, ran down Diagon Alley, and then slipped down the corner to Knockturn Alley.

Now she was all alone, scared, and confused. She was also cold. Shivering, she pulled her coat around her tighter. There were scary looking people walking around. She shouldn't be here. Moreover, that was the root of her problem. She never felt as if she belonged ANYWHERE. She didn't look like any of the other Weasleys, although Uncle Harry said that was okay, because she just looked like herself. Still, she always thought there was something missing in her life…until she found this scarf.

She began to cry again. She was such a baby. She was eight years old. An eight year old shouldn't cry, but she didn't care. She cried anyway.

A man dressed all in black, with black shorn hair cut so close to his scalp that it shined, walked into the alleyway right after the little girl did. He honed in on her immediately, and hid behind a doorway, watching, and waiting.

She was out of place here. She didn't belong here. This place was full of filth, pain, ugliness and despair. From the look of her tears, he figured she was lost and scared. On the other hand, perhaps someone had hurt her. His insides felt like they were being torn apart with shredded glass at the thought of someone hurting a little girl like that. Someone so young, so innocent, so pure. She looked so much like his little…no…he wouldn't think that. He refused to think of her. He hadn't thought of her since the day she was killed.

No, that was a lie. He thought of _her_ that day in the boxcar, when he told someone all about her. Why was he thinking about all of this now? Why was he dredging up all the pain of the past?

And why in the hell was this little one here? Furthermore, _why was he here_? He hadn't intended to come here today. He'd only been back in England for a few days, and Knockturn Alley was the last place he wanted to visit, yet it felt like he was brought here almost against his will, by forces he couldn't comprehend.

The little girl pulled her collar up against the wind and cold, scooted against the doorway, and pulled her knees to her nose, burying her face against the elements and other nasty things. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two unsavory characters conspiring, pointing toward her. Standing at his full height, he walked out into the open, let his presence known, and they quickly walked away.

It was time to find out why this little one was here. He didn't want to get involved. Getting involved with a little girl was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn't stop himself. He had no more control over getting involved with this wee one than he did nine years ago when he became entangled with his beautiful one.

Walking up to her slowly, so not to scare her, he smiled and said, "Hello, little one, are you lost?" As soon as he said those words, he remembered saying words that were eerily similar one time before to another lost girl…a woman really, who wasn't really lost, even though he found her.

Why did he keep thinking about HER right now?

The little girl looked up with only one eye. The rest of her face was hidden behind her curtain of dark curls. It was almost comical. She said, "I can't talk to strangers."

"That's a good policy to have. I can't talk to strangers either, but if we introduce ourselves, we won't be strangers any longer." He smiled at her, but remained a good distance away, so not to scare her unduly.

"Okay, what's your name?" she asked.

"Alex. What's yours?"

"Ellie. It's short for Eleanor."

As soon as she said her name, he felt a stab directly in the middle of his chest. It had to be a coincidence, or some sort of a divine joke against him for all his past sins. Swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat, he said, "That's a pretty name. I knew a little girl named that once. How old are you?"

"Eight."

Somehow, he knew she would say that. He looked around, placed his hand in his pocket, and felt for his wand. If he had to protect her suddenly, he wanted to be ready. He knew he would protect this little one to the death. He slid down the wall, to sit on the sidewalk, a meter away from the stoop where she was huddled against the wind.

Reminding himself that it was all a coincidence, he said, "Well, Ellie, short for Eleanor, who's eight years old, why are you crying?"

"My mummy and daddy are fighting." She sunk her head back to her knees and hiccupped a few times.

"I hear mummies and daddies do that sort of thing. I didn't have those growing up, so I wouldn't know," he said lightly. "You know, it's not safe in Knockturn Alley for a little girl like you."

She nodded. "I know."

"Yet here you are, aren't you?" He smiled at her. "You must be brave. You remind me of someone else I knew who was extremely brave."

"My uncle tells me I remind him of my mummy when she was young," she said with a smile, her eyes still bright with tears. "He tells me all the time that she was the bravest woman he ever knew."

He had no comment to that. "Why were your parents fighting?" He straightened out his legs and crossed his feet at the ankles, waiting to hear her answer.

"I don't know," she said sadly. "Sometimes they fight. This time, I think it was because of this," and she pulled a worn, Merino wool scarf out from the hiding place of her wool coat, and showed it to him.

He tried not to show the shock on his face, but if earlier he thought someone had stabbed him in the heart with a sword, even now they were twisting it around, torturing him with a pain he couldn't describe. She was eight years old, her hair was black, almost the same colour of his, and curly (just like his little sister's used to be, just like his lost love's used to be), her eyes were the colour of cornflowers (also like his sister's). Most of all, her name was Eleanor, but she went by Ellie.

She was named after his sister.

And she had The Scarf on her neck.

That meant her mother had to be…

"Ellie! Oh, Ellie, where are you?" a woman yelled out from the mouth of Knockturn Alley.

Suddenly, the man with short black hair, all black clothing, who said his name was Alex, stood up and held out his hand to the little girl who said her name was Ellie. He wasn't ready to give her up after having just found her, nor was he ready to see her mother…_yet._

"That's a beautiful scarf, Miss Eleanor. I'm not sure why it would cause your parents to fight, but don't cry or fret about it. Why don't you and I go have an ice cream. I just got back to England, and I haven't had an ice cream in a long time. I don't even remember what they taste like."

"Oh, they're quite good," she said with a smile.

The woman shouted again, but the man didn't think the little girl heard her. His hearing was always better than most. He smiled back at the little girl, took her hand, and then Disapparated away with her, just as the woman, her ex-husband, and her friend, Harry Potter rounded the corner.

Hermione Granger saw the man only briefly, but she didn't recognize him. All she knew was that some stranger had taken her daughter, so she screamed.

* * *

Sitting around the dining room table at the Granger's house, Ron asked Hermione's father if he wanted more coffee. The older man shook his head no, then turned to Harry and said, "It's been five hours. Don't you have any clues yet?"

"We'll find her, Dr. Granger. Every Auror, off duty member of the Ministry, as well as the Magical police are looking for her," Harry said with assurance.

The little girl's grandmother walked over to the men and said, "But with magic, he could have taken her anywhere. He could have done all sorts of things to her by now. Oh where are they?" She took her husband's hand and began to cry.

Ron put the pot of coffee on the table and said, "I should go see to Hermione."

"No, let me go," Harry offered.

"Yeah, maybe that's for the best, Ron," his brother George said. "If you two hadn't been fighting, and over a damn scarf, too, well, maybe this wouldn't have happened."

Ron glared at his brother, but didn't say anything. He knew the truth, but it wasn't his truth to tell. Walking up the stairs before Harry could, he started to turn right, to go up to the attic where Hermione slept, but instead, walked across the landing to the room that was once Hermione's room when she was a child, and which now belonged to Ellie.

Hermione was sitting in a corner of the room, clutching one of Ellie's stuff animals, a blank expression on her face. Ron squatted down to the floor and held her in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he whispered into her hair.

She started to cry again. Harry walked in, came before them, went down to his haunches, and pulled them both into his arms and said, "It'll be alright."

Those were the exact same things they both said to her the night she told them that she was pregnant with Scabior's child. That night, she confessed everything to Harry and Ron. Neither judged her, or condemned her for the choices (or chances) she made while they were on the run. Instead, Ron offered to marry her, to give the child legitimacy and a name. He said that no one would question the fact that they found comfort with each other while they searched for Horcruxes.

Harry promised that he would always love and protect her, too, as if she were his own.

Therefore, Ron and Hermione married when she was six months pregnant. They stayed married for a year and a half after that. Ron was now married to another, but he still loved little Ellie as if she were his child. His whole family loved her. No one else knew that the dead Snatcher, Scabior, was her real father, and it was decided that no one else would ever know. Hermione said she would tell her daughter when the time was right.

Harry and Ron didn't know that she named her baby after Scabior's dead sister. They didn't know (until today) that she had kept the scarf that had once linked them. They didn't know that she often told Ellie stories about a man named Scabior, who was very much like her, who had the uncanny ability, a talent really, of finding people and things.

They didn't know that she still thought of him all the time. They didn't know that she still dreamt about him, cried for him, longed for him.

He was the only man she ever loved. He was the only man she had ever slept with, even after she married Ron she remained faithful in her heart and with her body to the only man she ever loved.

And she did it all for her little girl. Her little girl who was now missing.

* * *

Scabior stood at the end of the street, holding his daughter's hand and he let it go, just as he was prepared to let her go. Bending down, he said, "You run along to your grandparents' house now. Remember, don't tell your mummy or her ex-husband anything that we discussed this afternoon. When the time's right, I'll reveal myself to her and tell her everything."

"And I can keep the scarf?" she asked, her big blue eyes wide with anticipation.

"Yes, you keep it always, close to you, and whenever you need me, really need me, you just take it out, and put it on, and think of your dear old dad, and he'll come running to you, is that a deal?"

She nodded, smiled, and threw her arms around his neck. He stood up, his arms around her small body, her legs dangling off the ground. "I'm so glad I got to meet my real daddy. I love you," she whispered in his ear.

Only two other people had ever said that they loved him, (he had loved them in return) and now this little girl loved him. He didn't know what to make of that, and he didn't know what to make of the fact that he loved her like no other, and he'd only known of her existence for six hours and twenty-three minutes.

Placing her on her feet, he decided that he would come to her mother tonight. He had to. He wasn't going to reveal himself to her before, but after finding out about Ellie, now he knew he had no choice.

He wasn't going to let her know that he'd spent five years in Azkaban, and then almost three years on the continent, and that all the while he thought of nothing but her. He had intended to forget about her, but he knew he never could. Still, he thought she would have forgotten about him…but now he knew with little Ellie, his little Ellie, she could never forget about him either.

And he didn't blame her for marrying the ginger. It was probably his idea. At least she had the common sense to divorce him. Also, it warmed his heart to know that she had secretly been revealing bits and pieces about him to their daughter. That meant he wasn't ashamed of him. That meant that perhaps she had forgiven him. That meant that perhaps she really had loved him, and maybe there was a future for them.

Or maybe not.

It didn't matter, but he still wanted to see her tonight, even if it was only for one last time.

He patted Ellie on the head and sent her toward her grandparents' house. A swarm of Aurors descended upon the little girl as soon as she got within two blocks of the home. Scabior remained at the end of the street, his eyesight acute, staring at the front garden, waiting, watching.

There she was. His beautiful love ran out the door, her long curly hair flowing behind her. Gads, she was more beautiful today than she was as a girl of eighteen. She picked her little girl up in her arms and swung her around in a circle. He couldn't hear them, but he could tell that she loved her.

That was enough for him for now.

* * *

Hermione was having another nightmare. She woke up gasping for breath. Clutching her wand, she lit every light in her attic bedroom at her parents' home and looked around. For the briefest moments, she thought she saw someone move quickly from the corner of the room, but it must have been part of her dream.

Throwing back her covers, she decided to go check on her daughter again. Since putting her to bed tonight, she had already checked on her four times. And Harry had helped her strengthen the wards at their house, so she knew she had nothing to fear. She knew her daughter was safe in her own bed, but she still had to be sure.

Once she had checked on her again, she went to the loo, then came back up the stairs and sat on the side of her bed. My goodness, when she thought of what might have happened to her daughter she froze in horror. She could have been raped. She could have been killed or kidnapped.

Instead, she said she got lost in the warren of strange alleyways of Knockturn Alley, and then a man named Alex found her, got her some ice cream, talked to her for a while, and then she fell asleep. After she woke up, she was on the street near their house.

However, for some reason Hermione felt that Ellie was holding back something important, but she decided not to press the subject. She could always question her more tomorrow. Tonight, she was merely thankful that the little girl was back home.

Ellie wanted to wear the scarf to bed. Hermione didn't see why she couldn't. After all, the magic of the scarf had surely waned after all these years, and anyway, the man responsible for that magic died nine years ago.

After her bath, Ellie told her grandparents, her uncles and her stepfather (aka, 'daddy') goodnight, then Hermione helped her into her pajamas. Wrapping the scarf loosely around her daughter's neck, Hermione told her a story about how she first bought it. She left out the mature details, but included the fact that it was the first time she met a man named, "Scabior."

Ellie asked, "Scabior?"

Hermione nodded and simply said, "Yes, he's your real father." She expected a ton of questions after that, but instead the little girl just said, "Oh," and then said, "Well, I'm sleepy, Mummy. You can tell me more tomorrow."

Hermione wanted to laugh and cry all at once. Was it that easy? Kissing her daughter on the forehead, she said, "Goodnight, beautiful," to her little girl, then lay down beside her until the little girl drifted off to sleep. After she finally slept, and only after, did Hermione crawl from the bed and walk back up to her own room.

Then an hour later, she walked back down. She repeated the action of walking back down, checking on Ellie, then walking back up, several more times during the night, having just done it now for what she hoped was the last time. Kissing her little girl once more on the cheek, she reached down to the floor to pick up the tartan scarf. It must have fallen off during the night. Clutching it against her chest, she sighed, walked out of the room and back up the attic stairs.

Once back in her room, she sighed loudly as she flicked off the lights with a swish of her wand. Then she walked back over to her own bed and crawled under the covers. With the scarf in her grasp, she thought of the first time she met him. She was doomed from the start - doomed to love him, doomed to be lost forever. Would the empty feeling in the pit of her heart ever end? Wrapping the scarf around her neck once, she hunkered down, turned to her side, hugged her pillow, and started to cry for too many reasons to mention.

She didn't notice the movement in the corner of her room again. It was there before, but just as before, she wasn't aware of anything amiss. Certainly, no one could breach her wards. Harry and Ron were gone. Her parents were fast asleep on the floor below her, as was her daughter. No, she didn't realize he was in the room with her until he was right upon her.

He rushed to the bed and sat beside her, one hand quickly going to her mouth, the other holding both hands captive over her head. Her eyes opened in shock. In the darkness of her room, she thought that instead of being awake, she was already asleep and dreaming, even though she knew that only moments ago she was sleeping.

Releasing her hands, he reached up and brushed a piece of hair away from her face, leaned over her, he said, "We have a lovely little girl, beautiful, but what did I expect? Of course we would."

"This isn't real," she gasped. "You're dead. You aren't here. I've dreamt this same dream so many times that I don't trust it this time. I've just been upset tonight. I almost lost her, so I'm dreaming of you."

"Is that right? Did you almost lose her? Good thing I'm so good at finding things, because I'm the one who found her," he said softly, leaning over her, his hand on her neck. "I didn't mean to scare you, lovely, but I didn't know I had a daughter until tonight, and I had eight years to make up for, so forgive me for keeping her from you for so long. You must have been scared."

She gasped again, suddenly realizing this might be real. She reached up and ran a hand over his short, black hair. "Is this real?"

"I know, I know, I look different without my long locks, don't I? If you say my looks were my hair, I might cry." He gave her a sarcastic smile, pulled her over to him as he lay down beside her. She turned to her side and continued to touch him…his hair, his face, his neck, his arms.

"I should hate you. You left me. You went away," she said with a sob.

"Couldn't be helped, sweetness. I turned myself in. How stupid was that? Seems I had some important information for the Ministry, and in exchange for that, they only gave me five years, on the condition that no one ever tell you that I was alive."

"Why?"

"Always so inquisitive," he smiled. "Your last little speech to me taught me a thing or two, either that, or I was a stupid fool." He pulled her closer, buried his face against her neck, and tried to breathe in the scent of her, so he could always remember her smell, her touch, her soul. His lips brushed her neck, and moved over to her cheek, turning to her mouth, and catching her lips with his.

"I go with the stupid fool," she said seriously after he ended their kiss.

"Me, too," he agreed. "I heard you that night. You cried out for me after the battle. I was hiding, watching you and a whole bevy of your followers looking for me. It broke my little heart it did. I thought leaving you was the noble, right thing to do. I won't make that mistake again. I can't believe we have a daughter."

"I named her Eleanor," Hermione replied.

"Yeah, she told me. Hey, you and the ginger are divorced, right? She told me you were, but I don't want to get my hopes up."

"We are. Listen, I never loved him beyond friendship. We never had anything resembling a real marriage, but he's been good to Ellie. He loves her. So does his family."

"Yeah, well, suddenly, somehow, after only one day, so do I." Kissing her lips again, he reached down, blindly, for he felt he was in a fog, and he reached for her hip, and then pulled her leg up over his. His mouth left hers to trail a line of kisses on her neck and shoulder.

He heard her whimper, as she tried to push him away. She asked, "How did you come to find her? Why now?"

"I just got back to England, and I don't know how she did it, but she called me to her today, in that alley. It was the scarf. I was brought to this house earlier, perhaps by you, or by her, the same way. It seems I'll forever be a slave to my girls and that effing scarf."

"Good," she whispered, kissing him under his chin.

"For the record, I came here to say goodbye, but I've decided against it," he clarified, kicking off his boots, pulling his jumper off his chest, unzipping his trousers.

"Good," she repeated, kissing the middle of his chest.

He pushed her to her back, reached down, and pulled her nightgown over her head. She seemed as desperate as he felt. His mouth moved down her breasts, to her nipples, where he kissed her desperately, before placing one in his mouth.

He kissed her stomach, then slid her knickers down her lovely legs. With a ragged breath, he cupped her backside before he placed his tongue along her pelvic bone. With a long swipe of his tongue, he licked across her abdomen, and then he spread her legs with his elbows. Moving his shoulders under her thighs so that her knees bent slightly, he gave her pleasure that she had long since lacked.

The bliss that coursed through her was every bit as real as the pain she had felt all those years he was gone. If this was another dream, she hoped she would never wake, because she wouldn't be able to stand the pain.

The thought that this might not be real broke her heart. She started to tell him so, but couldn't speak, as a wave of pleasure went through her, resulting in a gentle moan. He shifted position and with the help of his tongue and his fingers, she started her ascent. The shudders began to rack her body, and he steered her to the start of her climax, then moved up her body.

Lodging his hip between her pliable thighs, he positioned himself against her, pushing lightly at first, entering only a bit, going slowly, so he could remember this time, play it over in his head, just in case she came to her senses later and wanted nothing to do with him.

When he entered her he thought he would come immediately, gripping her waist. He brought his hands up to her cheeks, his elbows beside her head, and with one hand in her long hair, the other one on her cheek, he dropped his forehead to hers and said, "You're still so beautiful, still too good for me, but with all that I am, I've finally come to realize that I deserve you."

Closing his eyes, he rocked back and forth, his head tucked between her neck and shoulder, one hand coming to rest on one of her breast. She reached for his hand, then his other, and they laced their fingers together.

He arched up, pushing harder into her warmth, and when he finally opened his eyes, he saw that she was crying. Not hard, no wails, no sobs, just gentle tears falling down her face He thought it was the loveliest thing he'd ever seen in his life.

He lifted himself slightly from her, let go of her hands, and plunged in one last time, as hard and long as he could. That was when they locked eyes and he knew that he had hurt her once, just as she had hurt him, but that was long ago. It didn't matter any longer. He refused to give in to guilt. He had never felt guilty before, and he wouldn't feel guilty now.

Right now the only thing he felt was the ultimate act of pleasure, an act of love, an act of retribution.

He moved off her and rolled to his side. "Well…" he sighed and took a deep breath. "That was rather nice, my lovely."

She rolled to her side, facing him, and she said, "I don't know where we begin, but this was a start."

He placed his hand on her arm, rubbed it up and down, but he was without words. He found the scarf on the bed, tangled up with their bare limbs, and he wrapped it around one of her wrists, and then around one of his own. He said, "Just humour me for right now, because I don't want to take the chance that you'll be gone in the morning, 'right?"

She laughed, kissed him again, and said, "Believe it or not, I was about to say the same thing to you."

"Now, tell me all about our daughter."

"Oh, where do I begin?" she asked with a small laugh. Then she began talking, with the scarf tethering his wrist to hers, if not forever, at least for now.

The End


End file.
